


Shady Dealings

by Susamo



Series: The Adventures of the young Gos athor Atlan da Gonozal [5]
Category: Perry Rhodan - Various Authors
Genre: Alternate Reality, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:53:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24709399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Susamo/pseuds/Susamo
Summary: Young Atlan da Gonozal, the Crystal Prince of his people of Arkon, has to survive and hide upon a backwater colonial world named Tela-vhelor, where the people who have murdered the crew of his father's ship and have tried to abduct him have best ties to the government and are hunting for him. He has taken on the identity of the orphaned son of a Shader Merchant named Cunor Lant'cer and must find a place for himself upon this world. According to the age-old dictum that my enemy's enemy is my friend, he must try to find allies among the less respectable and even criminal people of Makarsa, Tela-vhelor's capital. So he goes forward to explore the world he has come to...
Series: The Adventures of the young Gos athor Atlan da Gonozal [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1753825
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	Shady Dealings

**Author's Note:**

> Dear reader, I am not only a fan of Perry Rhodan but also of Star Trek. I just couldn't resist quoting one of the most famous episodes of the original series. If you do not know what I mean even after reading my story, look up the word "Tribble"!
> 
> The mehandor, the Traders, are an Arkonath-descended people living upon their ships, jumping from star to star selling and buying. Their home base is the planet Archetz in the Rusuma system, but the mehandor clans act independently from each other. Clans can be very small and have but one ship-as the Lirela was supposed to be-or they could own thousands of ships like the great clan of Cokaze. In the Perryverse the mehandor are called the Springers by the people of Terra (Earth) and are described as stocky red-haired people, shrewd and cunning, and always ready to take advantage of unwary customers. The time this adventure takes place is an era ten thousand years previous, though, and even of many mehandor have begun to color their red or have become red-haired by genetic change, many other mehandor have not yet adopted this fashion and appear as white-haired and red-eyed as any Arkonide.  
> That red hair reminds the mehandor of the Semarudh, the compact of Blood which they all share, and the Deal they all set great store by, and where their honor truly lies. Every mehandor will do anything he can to fulfil a deal, called the Mehan or the Mapan, which is the ancient expression for it. A Deal will be agreed upon by saying "Mapan thundo!" The Deal is struck!  
> An honourable title for a successful mehandor is calling him a sekh', a traveller. Critical Arkonides who think a mehandor to be ready to fleece a customer or seeing too much to his own good only will turn that phrase around to insult the mehandor by calling him a mehan'skhe, after a skety. This is a sharp-fanged, quite vicious carnivore with a shining soft pelt, looking nice and placid as long as ne doesn’t touch or rouse it, then, if angered, swift and nasty; often used as a half deprecatory, half appreciative address or swear-word at a mehandor.  
> Typical for the mehandor culture is the long braid down the back or short sleeves upon a jacket that let the long sleeves of the shirt underneath show. 
> 
> On Arkonath measurement of time, see the notes of my previous works. In short: a year is called a Tai-Votan consisting of ten months, called Votani or periods. Every Votan has three berlons (weeks) with twelve days each. A day is a prago and has twenty tontas( hours ). A minute is a khela and a second a sarton.
> 
> An Orbeki is a cat-like being as tall as a man, living in a matriarchal culture.
> 
> a zarak-tho is a shader man, a member of the World of Shadow, a criminal. A zarak-athor is a leader of such men and of a criminal organization; a kath' zarak is literally a shader sword, a criminal who knows how to fight and kill.
> 
> A Tato is a provincial governor of minor power, often only ruling one planet or at most one system.
> 
> Tiga Ranton, the Three Worlds, is what the Arkonides call their homeworlds which circle the Arkon Sun upon the same equatorial orbit in an isosceles triangle. They are Arkon One, Gos Tanton, the Crystal World where they live, Arkon Two, Mehan'Ranton, the World of trade, and Arkon Three, Gor Ranton, the World of War.
> 
> The Arkonath believe in the She'huan, the Gods of the Stars, of which there are twelve male and twelve female ones. They are thought to be aspects of Thiath, God Itself, the Highest Principle.
> 
> A Yilld is a kind of dragon. Of the species, only three kinds are still in existence in zoos and natural parks: the snow yield, the rock yilld and the yilld of the sand. Yillds are found upon heraldic crests and have given rise to many proverbs and expressions of the Arkonath language and culture.
> 
> The Debara Hamtar, literally the Lonesome Isle, is the galaxy.

Shady Dealings

Walking and carrying as such proved to be no problem for a Dagor-trained youth who had to run a Room every third prago and who had to spend at least one tonta a day in the gym for a workout as well. Kelta had seen to it meticulously that Atlan never had let up with his physical training or became sloppy, not one prago. It was the compensation he needed, he always had said, for his sitting at his desk or in-class learning and studying, and was the pre-condition necessary to assure his well-being and health, and for his ability to do the more advanced training. 

So before he had started for Tela-vhelor’s capital and spaceport he had at least done the stretching exercises that did so well to relax muscles and tendons and had set up the Dagor goth shield and the crystals in a mental exercise which would help him to control his emotions and let him keep his head clear and able to act and react with his accustomed and well-trained speed. The murders upon the TONDON had happened too shortly ago to not constantly and badly upset the young Crystal Prince, whose heart hurt still very much for his dead nurse and his bodyguard, and for his parents and uncles far away at home, and his awareness that he was all alone as he never had been in his life before brought their absence home to him the more.

Walking along on a small winding path connecting the power plants, which, as he knew from the survey before, lead to a bigger lane and then a street, the young Arkonide had time enough to think about his situation and his goals, how to reach them and which steps to take. That here upon this planet he was in a trap was clear, and a trap one had to escape from as swiftly as possible.

On approach to Tela-vhelor’s surface, he had seen that this world had three continents and a few isles within a world-spanning ocean, not much different from Arkon, and from each land-mass the tell-tale readings had come that unmistakeably spoke of a place where ships from space landed and took off, in short, of a spaceport.  
Unquestionably, though, the by size and frequency of signals much biggest port was here with the capital of Makarsa, and this must be then where the greatest part of trade and the highest frequency of cargo handling would take place, and where, if anywhere, the trading mehandor ships or their boats would land.  
Such a tender could be quite large, with large holds for goods; and this was where his chance lay. He had to leave this world as soon as possible.

Without an ID and the necessary reconnoitering, this was of course absolutely impossible. He would not have passed the first cordon of security gates. But once in he would find a way to hide at the spaceport, he hoped and might find a way to either stow away in a container or openly ask and negotiate for a passage.  
For all of that, he needed money, and as much money as he could scrape together; and he had to stay as unobtrusive as possible. The devices from the lifeboat would get him the money he needed to buy a fake ID and perhaps a small gun so he could defend himself if the need arose. He might need some equipment as well, and he would need food and water; transportation back to the vicinity of the boat, perhaps, to let him get the second load of apparatus to sell.  
Well, that he should be able to handle, by and large. 

The question was, of course, what a regular passage would cost, and whether one needed better ID and luggage than he would have. Of course, that would depend upon which ships were in port right now and would be ready for take-off soon, and where they would be going. Anywhere, of course, was better than here where his enemies were lurking and where the assassin’s ship must have landed by now. If they were clever and had the means they would have begun to hunt for him now.

Atlan shivered and compressed his lips. The attack upon the TONDON had proven that they knew how to hatch and implement a plan, hadn’t it? Against all the possible odds they had found ways to breach the highest security measures in the whole Empire, had managed to conceal a transmitter’s cage within the Tai Mascant’s personal yacht before take-off and had let it activate upon plan after they had been gone some time on their journey.  
That meant that they had had intimate knowledge of Taneth’s flight plan, and last-minute reliable contact with, apparently, someone from crew, presumably bridge crew, to account for all eventualities. The assassin’s ship had had to be where the Tondon had rematerialized – even if one had a transmitter to be used the distance one had to cross was of the essence to make the step-through safe, as well as the size and energetic power of the thing. The transmitter concealed upon the TONDON, which he had seen dismantled as they passed on their way out, had been small.

Furrowing his brow in intense thought the boy went along swifter. 

What also followed was the fact that someone from the bridge had been a traitor. The TONDON had clearly mis-jumped with the last jump she had taken, had therefore gone unexpectedly where the assassin’s ship was lurking-Gods, if one thought this through, then there had had to be a traitor among the bridge-crew!  
But, how? All of the men and women of his personal crew were extremely well known to his father and vented by the Services ceaselessly, had served upon the TONDON for years-but hadn’t there been his father mentioning that three men had had to be exchanged lately for them going on pension and that the new ones had come from that famous bunch of heroes who had survived Maahkath imprisonment with Frantomor, and who had broken out of captivity and escaped it along with him?

The matter remained an absolute puzzle. Atlan was sure that the number of men and women he had seen lying on the floor of the bridge and who had been shot one by one by the assassins had been complete. If there had been a traitor among the bridge personnel that one had been shot and killed too. Why, Gods? It all made no sense!

For a moment the young Crystal Prince felt bile rise in his throat, being reminded of what he had seen, remembering the way his father’s crew-people had been murdered. He had been violently sick in truth and had been heard throwing up, and so had been found.

Gods. Atlan had to stop, fighting the retching and the heaving of his stomach he felt right now. Leaning forward and taking slow deep breaths he got himself under control and made use of the crystals he mentally had implemented with the protective goth shield, managing to make his stomach ease up again.  
There was no time for him now to think of Taneth and his crew. He had to think about getting off this planet here as soon as possible, and finding a realistic way to do that, assessing his appearance and means and chances correctly, which was none so easy with the situation he found himself in, an unknown one with totally alien circumstances applied, namely, that he was all alone and had no back-up, and was upon a world he never had heard of before and which he knew nothing about. The only safe clues which he had in his hands had to do with Trantagossa being relatively near to this strange system, and with his knowledge about the merchanter mehandor culture.

That was an unexpected asset now, the young prince mused, walking on. His mother the Escantha of Iprasa was not only one of the best xeno-psychologists the Tai Ark’tussan had, she also was an excellent sociologist, a subject that went hand in glove with psychology and the knowledge the Arkonath culture had of the cultures of other sentient beings and of semi-animal populations. Yagthara tec’Gonozal had trained and taught her son herself, which had made him know his mother not only in her motherly role but also as much in her role as his teacher. That had started soon after his birth, he knew, with simple games, though he barely remembered that time now. But by now he knew more upon these subjects than many adults did, and liked to learn and know more by the prago. It was a talent he had, mother had said proudly, for psychology and sociology. Naturally, he had regular classes in psychology as well, with Seekoia ta Selíf, which he took in the company of Olders, youths from the Thi Khasurnai living at the Gos Khasurn from fourteen onward who still were not yet on his level.

But well, having Yagthara tec’Gonozal for a mother accounted for much, Tarlor da Quertamagin had said with a wry smile when the Crystal Prince, not yet twelve, had beaten him at reading and explaining a Situation again. And the Dagor and Golamo training he got was accounting for at least as much, Atlan had thought, grinning at Tarlor who was rising sixteen. The game of “Who am I?” taught one an astonishing lot of things. But he had not said so-that was a part of his education he was to be silent about, his father had warned him, and had explained why.

So he knew much more than his age peers or, at that, more than most Arkonides did about the mehandor culture, about the Deal, about family and clans’ ties and the way a mehandor might see a situation, contrary to what an Arkonath based upon Tiga Ranton would perceive. It was enough to let the young prince believe that he might get by well enough as a mehandor himself in the eyes of people not being part of that community or that culture.

But among a mehan’ crowd, of course, he would stand out at first glance and would be caught at but posing with the second one, as much he was certain of. He had enough mehan’ido expressions and words to pass for a trader boy in the eyes of people who had little knowledge, granted. But he knew that the first question asked by a genuine mehandor would reveal him to be other than of their people.   
So a free passage upon a mehan’ ship would not be his just for the asking as they might do it for a real orphan of a merchanter clan-he would have to pay for it regularly, and in advance-if the ship in question offered passages at all and the crew would not refuse on the grounds that this ship was a tender for goods exclusively. Of course, almost all mehandor made exceptions, granted the price was right. But that much money he never would get together, Atlan thought with a sinking feeling. Thinking his first so glorious idea through proved to be quite a come-down for him.

Stowing away in a container might prove fatal as well. What if that thing was transported in a hold without air or heat? He’d freeze to death or suffocate within short order. He’d have to make sure that he could give signals or cut himself out in time- what if his signals were ignored or were not received? Or, if he could not cut himself out of the container because it was of a material he could not penetrate with a small needler he might die of thirst after four or five pragos-if that load was to be shipped farther the recipients might find his corpse some Votani later! He also had the alternative of shooting a burst of energy at the container’s wall in desperation and have the temperature inside go up that swiftly that he might die of heatstroke and slowly cook after. They had made such awful jokes after that lesson in class, horsing around about silly stow-aways-but desperation like that, in reality, was quite an inspiring emotion and could lead one into taking true risks, one saw! Gods, they had not had any idea about reality.

Atlan took a deep breath and shuddered. Stowing away was easier said than done, was it not?

It’d be much safer to either buy a passage regularly-if his money sufficed for that-or he could offer to work for it-if the ship in question offered working berths, that was. And would anyone hire a boy not yet twelve-even if he made himself to be thirteen rising fourteen on his ID, as he had planned? He’d at least have to prove his worth and abilities to the captain, and for that, he most likely would not have the time, and it would make the captain pause and question. On vid the heroic Celista, Rhegar da Khilmerol, did such things often enough, slipping through his enemies’ grasp and search as an oil-blackened dockside worker directing his dingy robots. And he even knew by the Golamo reports he had read that such schemes had worked before for some agents.  
But those were adults, grown and able men, while he was, face it, just a boy. What would he do in truth if the captain denied him and began to ask a barrage of questions he had no answers to?

Of course, he could come up with his real identity then. But would he be believed by a ship’s captain who did not have the means to verify that claim with tapping into the police’s datanet, as Atlan had hoped the first real and loyal policeman would do whom he identified himself to at the port he would disembark at? No, surely not. The captain would get suspicious and would call the authorities, and then he would have delivered himself neatly into the hands of his enemies… If, it came to him suddenly, he was confronted with the captain at all, and not with an irate quartermaster who’d throw him to the Luykan pack the swifter.

Gods, Gods, Gods! What was he to do, please Merakon who was his patron god as the Crystal Prince, or Garthanol, the god of cleverness and wisdom, patron of mathematicians and strategists, aid me, please!

Hurriedly walking along he did not stop and go to his right knee in the correct praying gesture for the God.  
But he cupped his hands and properly covered his alor’mirkh, at the middle of his breast and at the height where his heart was in his fervent entreaty to the God of logic and clever strategy while he desperately thought on.

His best option still was a mehandor ship. First, because the frequency of landing at this port of those would outdo any other merchanter vessel, second, because they lived upon their ships and had no reason to stay on a backwater planet like Tela-vhelor too long, third because he knew enough about Lirela and her owner’s dealings upon Lepso to be able to give first information which might be adequate for them to let him board. That Aloroy Lant’cer had been a Mehan’Zarak, a Shady Dealer, a Shadow Trader. So he, being his son-could be his adopted son-, would not be expected to divulge too much information at a first meeting, and it might be probable that he knew little about some things and was obstinately silent about others; still, he would be a lone straggler of a mehandor crew, perhaps a boy from another backwater planet who had been taken into that Zarak ship’s crew for the captain’s unknown reasons, a boy who need not be a mehandor born and had just begun to learn the Trade. They would perhaps feel inclined to extend their solidarity among mehandor to him too!

Well, that was a role he could play convincingly, he believed, and which would be more probable in a mehan’ eye.

New hope let Atlan’s eyes gleam adventurously as he walked on. That might be a real chance, he thought. 

Once inside a mehan’ ship and after take-off he might reveal himself to the captain before that man got too inquisitive or suspicious. He might go through the Wives, of course- an even better route of getting discreet attention. Then he could prove the truth of his claims by giving a few codes he had in his head and would be set down with all honours at a safe Fleet Base with that mehandor captain about to reap the reward of his life-time.   
And he would be brought home as swiftly as possible and be received by uncle Cunor, and all would be as well as possible again, and the assassins would be caught within a few pragos.

Granted, of course, the young prince thought, that he managed to stay unobtrusive when he sold his gadgets and got himself some equipment and that ID card. His original one had merrily burned away with his uniform, and good that it had-that card had contained his original data. 

The young Crystal prince twisted his mouth. He was relatively sure that the assassins did not have all the information they needed to identify him. They had not officially taken record of all his data, no scanning of his fingerprints or his retina, no taking of his brain-wave patterns nor, which he would have noticed for sure, had a complete neuro-scan and cellular wave reading been done. Though fingerprints they could take from the cell he had been held in, and a relatively correct retina scan might be reconstructed from the vid records of their cameras. 

As to his gene print-for that they would have needed a blood sample or hairs of his or a sufficient amount of skin flakes of his. But the sonic shower he had taken surely had taken care of a hygienically perfect disintegration of any organic material he had shed, and since he had combed himself thoroughly under that shower and had cleaned the comb there as well it was to be expected that his hairs had gone down the same flasher.

That he was on the safe side with brain wave patterns and cellular wave readings he was sure of, though. Ha! He was one step ahead of his enemies in this!  
For a moment a fierce triumphant grin flashed across the young Arkonide’s face. He was getting the better of the murderers and abductors, and he would get more steps ahead, he was sure of that now. They would have the means to search for him, all right, because they very obviously were in league with official departments upon this planet.  
But they would not have the data to identify him. He had changed his looks well enough, he hoped, and then-the assassins could not easily betray themselves with admitting that they were on the hunt for the Crystal Prince of the Empire, could they? So pictures taken of him and handed over would rather reveal the guilt of his abductors than endanger him. Another point in his favour, that was.

Atlan smiled almost merrily. He was in a sorry predicament, but so were his enemies. Short of coming down to the planet’s surface themselves and looking for him on their own, they could not improve upon the imprecise data they could hand the planetary police, a fact which would let him slip by unnoticed. Ha, again!

The street had become a broad highway passing the factories. Long hover-buses passed at high speed, at stops taking up passengers and luggage and goods and robots transporting them, machines in Arkonath shape, the universal smiling servobot, or those which were purely functional, consisting of little more than a thomkay generator and a cargo hutch with a small positronic unit, hovering and following their owners. Some people were disembarking as well, seemingly poorer folk who lived here among the factories and production centers where large blocks of flats, of purely functional design, were interspersed among the working areas. Those carried their luggage only in hover bags, a few of them even carrying their goods-food purchased, it seemed, and things for daily needs sticking out of their bags-by their own simple power of muscle.

The young prince consciously had to keep from staring while he walked along the pedway as only a few people did.  
Who was carrying his goods by muscle power, Gods be graceful? He did, right, granted, because the duffel was the simplest utilitarian issue and he had no other means right now, which factor he would be changing as soon as he had his chronners. But these people seemed to do this by habit! Didn’t they know that habitual carrying of heavy loads was unhealthy in the extreme and did harm to one’s spine and joints, not to speak of the chance for postural deformity? They had medical cases enough of people from the miners’ companies who lived half their lives stationside under less than ideal conditions or worked in light gravity for too long. These people could not help that. But the people here- could it be that they did not have the money to pay for a simple hover bag?

Feeling somewhat confused Atlan went on. Perhaps daily life upon this backwater planet was more primitive than that of the mainstream culture of the Tai Ark’Tussan. Another indicator for that were the ground-running vehicles going along the highway on four or six wheels which actually touched the ground, not hovering at all as the buses and individual gliders did overhead-or the fact, come to think of it, that there existed pedestrian walkways at all right along the highway for those who would walk upon their own feet as did he, now, in his need, having not a single skalito in his pockets to pay for transportation.

Upon Gos Ranton walkways existed too, of course, but only for the sake of recreation, artfully turning and winding through parks to cunningly offer another stunning vista with every second step. Here the pedways went side-by-side the highway and offered no special vista at all, and he was not the only person who preferred walking; those who did, however, did not look to be nicely dressed or even too cleanly done up, at that.

Well, he seemed to have chosen a most fitting sloppiness to his dress, the young prince thought; clenching his teeth he calculated that he would have to walk for at least another two tontas before he got anywhere near to the spaceport, rather three tontas. Grimly he shifted the duffel on his shoulder. So much for physical exercise when one had no money to pay for transport. Gods, a Berlon ago he would have thought this a great adventure. But if one had no alternative, but had to walk because one could not simply board a glider for the asking matters were surprisingly different.

What he had not thought of happened, though. One of these ground cars stopped at his side, the window unsealed, and an elderly woman stretched out her head.  
Atlan had stopped politely, expecting her to ask him something, and was thoroughly surprised to hear her invite him for a ride, as she said. In thanks he bowed and stepped in when the hatch opened, revealing a small but snug passenger’s compartment where he was offered a seat while the car took up speed again and re-entered the speed lane.

The woman was chatty. She seemed to have a good heart and explained her unexpected charity with her compassion for someone who had to walk such distances on foot, as she said-right, there had not been an access to enter or leave the walkway for kilometers-but she left it at that and instead of asking difficult questions informed the young Arkonide about all the marks her grandchildren were getting in school and that her youngest grandson had got a tribble for a pet last year which spawned seventeen of its kind by the third Berlon after and promised to do the same again within an even shorter period, the offspring bearing too not yet spoken of.

Atlan, whose mother was a xenopsych Escantha at Iprasa, grinned, knowing that tribbles were born pregnant and gobbled as much food as they could, ready to bear more of their kind at the slightest chance.

“One has to keep such a pet hungry most of the time”, he said gently and with this even got the sera’s attention, who grimaced and snapped her fingers in agreement.

“Yes, we found that out when the critters had become more than one hundred and my poor daughter did not know anymore where she should get the food from for the tribbles”, she retorted.

The boy snorted. He could imagine.

With a humorously vicious smile, she turned from the driver’s board, facing him, and added: “His father had them killed but for the youngest one and had the vet get them out-and later we learned he had their pelts sewn together to make a soft fuzzy blanket to sleep upon for his pains. Somehow they got their revenge upon him and influenced him in his sleep, I guess-he’s grown decidedly fatter since then.”

Laughing out loud Atlan shook his head. “Gods, the poor vet”, he said. “And your grandson?”

She smiled contentedly. “Is being happy though very careful with his single tribble ever since”, she answered. “And he thinks he has a more dangerous animal in his care than has his friend, who owns a pelz.”

Still grinning the boy snapped his fingers, agreeing.

“By the way, where do you want to go?” This was the first direct question the sera was asking him.

“Somewhere around the spaceport”, he replied vaguely. “Somewhere I can buy used gear or exchange gadgets or have them repaired.”

“Hm.” She examined him more closely than before. Atlan smiled at her openly and, as he hoped, guilelessly. Her gaze took in the sloppy way he wore his shirt and jacket and went down to his trouser legs and their turned seams. 

With a somewhat pitying smile, she softly asked:” An older brother’s suit you’re wearing, aren’t you? Seems your family cannot afford new clothes for you but gave you hand-me-downs.”

The boy gave back a pained smile. “Not a brother’s, t’was my cousin’s “, he murmured, sounding as embarrassed as he could.

“Hm.” Deliberating she cocked her head. “You’ll need a shop then in the oldest part of the trader center”, she explained decisively. “Right beside the trade port. There’s where the old sales vaults are, you cannot miss the area. Built into the ground they are, lower than street level elsewhere. It’s a bit dingy and loud and crowded with the narrow and winding streets, but this is where you’ll get better bargains than anywhere else. You from outta town?”

Atlan grimaced slightly. “Yes, sera”, he sighed.

“And you didn’t have the money to pay for a bus ride, even.”

The boy grimaced again. “No, sera. Thank you for the ride, sera.”

She smiled at him warmly. “Well, you’ve been taught manners, at least, and that’s worth more than fine clothes.”

Shaking her head she turned back to the board and shut off the auto drive, taking over manually and veered off at an exit coming up.

“Can’t understand what your parents thought you might meet, alone in town and so young. There are bad parts of this town, mark me, laddie. Do your trade and immediately leave the area again, get upon the bus and ride home as swiftly as you can, and do not take anyone’s offers, not on anything. You could be drugged with a glass of sultry, some kick-down slipped in, and might wake with nothing on you but shirt and pants left, or someone clubs you down from behind without bothering else at all. Mark my words, lad.”

Earnestly Atlan inclined his head. “Yes, sera, I will”, he answered.

Halfway satisfied she did the same and drove down another highway which turned into a street becoming narrower by the khela. To the left, the bulks of big ships began appearing beyond the shimmering of the energetic fence enclosing the port area, and the treble of a ship leaving off became felt through the wheels of the car and the ground it ran upon. They were part of a tightly packed line of cars moving down the street now, the security systems keeping them apart from each other by the same distance and holding them to the same speed.

The young prince took in his breath sharply. So near he was to his goal now. 

“Nice sight, isn’t it?” the elderly woman asked, a dreamy look in her eyes too as she turned momentarily. “Those ships.” She smiled.

“I’ve dreamed of going to space one day when I was young. But, Gods, it’s far and dangerous, and my man and the kids kept me busy.” Laughing she added:” And my grandkids, well, the show’s livelier than ever.”

Atlan grinned back and made ready to hop out when she indicated they were reaching their destination.

“I’m going farther uptown. But you can get off here and turn down the long straight street-it’ll take you to the old district, and from there you will find your way. Read the ads, one can find anything by them even without a guide pad or holo.”

“Yes, sera. Thank you, sera.”

“You’re welcome, lad. Nice chat. Kept me entertained on a boring trip.”

She waved him off in a friendly way as he exited the car and drove off quite leisurely. Atlan took a deep breath, bowing a little to the retreating car. Gods, she had not even asked his name. It was absolutely true what Sek-athor Kehene had said with one of his dictums:” People see what they want to see, and believe in their own surmises. “

With quite a light heart the young Crystal prince marched off towards the direction indicated. Now he was in a crowded part of town which became more crowded by the khela as he moved farther down that street.

“Watch your step, dumbass!”

The voice was deep and bellowing and Atlan, flinching, took more than a sarton to realize it had been him who had been addressed. At the last moment, he could evade a bulky man in worker dress who sent him an angry look. 

“Daydreaming fool”, that one muttered as he shouldered past.

The young prince was so indignant he stopped and looked after the man speechless. In such a way no-one ever had ever spoken to him!

Another man almost bumped into him, and as Atlan jumped aside he neatly collided with a younger woman in a yellow combination who shortly and sharply asked him: ”You drunk, kid?”

“Sorry, sera”, the boy stammered, truly out of his depth now, and moved aside to the wall of a sales-building as fast as he could, seeking refuge from the teeming crowd for a moment.

The woman gave him a disparaging look out of eyes glittering light red and impatiently threw back her head with the shining white braid coiled on top, and hurried on.

With a deep breath Atlan leaned against the wall that advertised Bargains! Get it all new! Whatever that was, and tried to reconnoiter and get himself and his wits back into line.  
Gods, he realized that he was not used to people not making room for him automatically. Of course he was used to crowds, and much bigger ones-but crowds at a reception at the Gos Khasurn, for example, or with state occasions where he had to attend at his uncle the Imperator’s side. Kelta had always stood at his back, and so had at least ten or more of his guard people, the Silvers, and countless robots and cameras and agents had made his every step secure, and so had his uncle’s and his father’s authority-and his own. He was the Gos athor of the Tai Ark’Tussan, Gods be gracious! Teeming crowds much bigger than this one filling but a street had shouted for him and had greeted him with the ancient gesture of people going to their knees, laying their fingertips upon their eyes. To that he was used, Gods, and he had thought that no teeming throng of people could ever daunt him! 

But this was different from anything he ever had experienced. No Kelta was there, and not a single guardsman either. There wasn’t even one security agent watching out for him, and not one journalist lining up to reverently asking questions the Imperial Department for media and communication had carefully vented beforehand.

Atlan swallowed. Suddenly he felt very much alone and quite afraid. It was good that no-one recognized him, of course, but he simply was not used to people not looking at him, ignoring him, even carelessly ranting at him-Gods, that bulky worker would have lain on his belly in fear if he knew whom he just had abused!

Healthy anger drove the fear and shock away. Right, no-one would make room for him and step aside. That meant that his plan was working and that he was as anonymous as millions of other people upon this planet were, and that he was safe from his enemies in his sloppy disguise. Good. That anonymity was his best protection, and as for guard duty-he would have to look out for himself, step aside himself and see to it he did not run into others.

Watching the Arkonides of Tela-vhelor passing by each other, making their ways around each other, evading, ignoring each other, and hurrying on side by side he knew how he must handle this. He must blend in, fit in, and be one of them, and all would be well. He simply must do as he saw the others do.

He was trained for watching out for himself, wasn’t he? He had had to run a Room every third prago for almost a Tai-Votan now. So he should be able to negotiate a crowd in a downtown street upon a backwater planet no less professionally!

Thinking of passing in that crowd as he had of negotiating a Room turned the situation halfway familiar. Still, he missed Kelta, he missed him so much…

Atlan swallowed the suddenly appearing lump in his throat down with an effort. Tears threatened to run down his face. With an angry breath, he wiped them away before they could spill and squared his shoulders. Kelta would have been the first one to urge his young protégé on. Standing to the side he was a sitting target and might draw attention if he kept standing there like an oaf for much longer.

The imagined crystal in his throat, filled with clear blue light, took in the tightness in his gorge and let him breathe freely again. Onward then. He was near to his goal and had come far and had done it successfully, and he would do even better today.

With another deep breath, the young prince stepped forward again and took painstaking care to move out of the other people’s way. 

Easiest, he found out swiftly, it was to follow and walk behind a big adult, letting him make the room he needed, and, if necessary, dart past and find another outrider to show him the way through the field of meteorites. This way he got on quite quickly and even passed a big square which led to a side-gate to the mehan’ port. As if aimlessly being driven Atlan let himself drift closer to his ultimate goal, wanting to see what kind of security he would have to pass, and noticed with astonishment that quite a long and disgruntled queue had formed, of people clearly most of them being off-worlders, several groups of them braided mehandor, some of them free-traders in blue-and-yellow combinations, even a few non-Arkonoid people among them. What was keeping the traders?

That this was not the usual protocol one caught easily by the subliminal indignation which was almost palpably hanging in the air.  
Coming nearer again the young Crystal Prince saw at last, gazing around the corner of a building, the tight cordon of security closing off the main port gates, heavily suited men in red and black, a yellow yilld attacking as their emblem etched upon helmets and breastplates. They were accompanied by quite dangerous fighting robots, models which should have been reserved for fleet and Service use, and were carrying reader devices with them which controlled and read every single person passing that cordon into the port area.

“Damn SSP, at it again-thought that yilld had found its prey a Berlon ago”, a man muttered to another just behind the boy who was staring in shock.

“State Security never helps us but makes our life harder. Look at this array. Tharú’s KOLLOSS men in the fore. Looks like they are after a really hard-kicking criminal-dumb fazers must have let run a truly bad kahtodo.”

But Atlan, looking closer at that array, realized that it was not a bad criminal these security men of Tela-vhelor were hunting for. A mehandor family was apparently returning to their ship with some personal shopping goods in tow, three women and four children and two men-but the ones most closely examined were the two boys of about his height, who were bodily apprehended and run through a gant of three scanners. And the man standing by the third one-

That one the young Crystal prince thought he recognized. From the ship. From the ship of the assassins, of the abductors, of the murderers of Lesena and Kelta.

Gods. They were hunting for him, and not just by a warrant or perfunctorily. They had done what he had scorned at before-they had sent their men out who had seen him personally.

Suddenly Atlan felt absolutely sick. He was trembling with shock and horror, and the realization that the way off this planet which he had hoped and planned for was closed to him. He was caught down here upon Tela-vhelor, he truly was in a cage, it was just somewhat bigger than before, and more crowded.   
Gods, oh Gods-the the assassins’ ship must lie in port, and her crewmen must have swarmed out to look for him along with the authorities of this world. State Security was after him, oh Gods, how was he ever to run from them and escape- Gods-

The young prince felt that he was near to throwing up. Trembling he staggered back and desperately looked for a place to hide, to be out of danger of drawing attention. There was a door into a courtyard of this building just beyond the entrance, a courtyard that was not private but belonged to the community of the inhabitants and so stood open to the public.

Wobbling Atlan staggered in and turned to the side immediately after, leaning against the wall, pressing his brow against the cool stone of the first column and fighting the desperate urge to spit out everything he had in his stomach, the last ration bar and the sips of water he had taken on the way. Gods, they were after him, Gods-

Blood seemed to spatter the wall in front of him, seemed to stick to his fingers. He tasted the sickly sweet iron-tanged smell again at the roof of his mouth, the smell of blood tainted with the killing gas that had murdered Alos and Tunutér, Gods-

He closed his eyes and whimpered softly. The successes and alleviations of his meditation were shot to Ereinnye right now. It had been too much to see a man from the murderers’ ship again, to know that the man was just about two hundred meters away, or less-Gods-  
Desperately he fought for breath and tried to get his heaving stomach under control. He must not throw up or break out in a weeping fit. He must not. He must not.

It was a hard effort for the young prince to re-implement the goth crystals of his mental shield, imagining the crystals in the throat, mirkan alore, and his belly. But he managed to do it with the hard discipline that had been trained into him his life long. Kelta would have urged him on, demanding he made use of his self-control.

Good. Slowly the trembling of his knees and his whole body, and his desperate gulping for air let up. Carefully the boy raised his still somewhat swimming head a little. Good. He was getting there-

A hand grabbed his collar roughly and yanked him back and up. “Junkie kid, off with you from our lawn, and don’t you dare spit the shit you’ve taken into our courtyard!” a rough voice bellowed into his ear.

Atlan reacted by in-trained instinct, twisting free of that hand and throwing it off with a warding move, ready to attack, facing the man who stared at him in surprise.

“Your judgment is sadly lacking, ser”, he said coldly and in an icy tone.

The man stared dumbfounded as the boy turned on his heel now precisely and walked off with dignity, dismissing the oaf with contempt and indignation clearly visible in his posture.

But his cool satisfaction at having shown that vohjo his place was very short-lived once he was out on the street and moving back to where he had come from, down that straight lane, not looking back on purpose.

He had been the vohjo right now, Gods! He had to stay unobtrusive-and instead he had drawn that man’s attention to someone odd and surprising!

Had he mumbled a “Sorry”, and staggered off the man would probably have forgotten about him in two tonta’s time. Now he would remember for pragos, if not Berlons. People saw what they expected to see, and right now he had thrown this man’s expectations to the winds. Damn it all to Ereinnye. He had handled this exactly the wrong way!

Grimly Atlan walked on, already quite neatly evading and dodging the other people in this street. This had to be the last mistake he had made running this gant. It was clear to him, crystal clear, that he would not simply find a way off this world too soon. He would have to wait and bide his time, and go for the second option he had thought of in the beginning, getting access to one of the bigger hyper radio senders and firing off a call to Arkon-or at least to Trantagossa and Mascant Sakál.  
For that he had to blend in far better with the people of this world, had to find a place here and stay under disguise, learning how the Tashma’ went here and how he could unobtrusively gain the accesses he needed. Reconnoitering and planning would take some time, and he must not get nervous or impatient, thinking of his family or of uncle Cunor. Gods-

But the gods were silent and kept their counsel, and he must see to his affairs himself.

Walking farther along that street which had become even narrower, the square and the waiting people having disappeared behind rows of tall buildings, not even the big ships in port visible to him, the young prince concentrated upon finding his way. He was going briskly but no swifter than most other people here. No running-he knew that running drew attention, and of attention, he had had enough already this day.

The predominant part of the pedestrians in this area were true-bred Arkonides, having the red eyes and the white hair of their kind, most of them tall and relatively slim. Only a few were accompanied by robots, and only a few had big luggage with them. But hover cases glided along with a lot of people-this was a shopping district, one saw that.   
Tela-vhelor seemed to have a population which had not genetically changed after settlement as it had happened with some older, and more famous colonial worlds like Zalit or Toulminth, the central world of the Amarynth cluster.

The percentage of non-Arkonoid people passing was less than a tenth, it seemed, though the obviously colonial people-men and women with dark skin or light blue clearly from Amarynth sector not far off this world towards the galactic core, with hair brown or even black like a man from Zalit, were more than that, and the few true mehandor groups coming by were clearly recognizable by their braids and their slightly stockier build and, of course, their spacer dress or the typical mehan’ fashion. Some of them had even begun to colour their braids in a reddish colour according to the Mehandor Compact of Archetz in the Rusuma System, which said that by the compact every mehandor clan stood to the side of every other-with the rules of healthy competition in operation, of course. Red stood for the shared blood and the daring of the journey, and lately even a genetic shift had occurred among some clans whose hair had become reddish due to raised cosmic radiation they had been exposed to. In perhaps three thousand years, Atlan’s mother had predicted, the overall look of the mehandor culture and the mehan’ population shipboard would be changed. Even the general look and build of their ships were changing right now due to the necessities and the harsh conditions of this war. Mehandor were attacked relatively often by the Maahks, and in their turn had begun to buy and refurbish the wrecks of Maahkath ships, making use of the opportunity as any proper mehandor would. There were clans who almost exclusively had ships of cylindrical shape now instead of the typical Arkonath build of a sphere circled by the ring of engines.

What also drew the eye of the young sociologist’s pupil was the fact that mehandor in general looked younger than they were. Living upon their ships and spending their lives in space upon a never-ending journey they got their automatic share of sublight travel and the time dilatation that entailed with coming out of hyper-drive and a jump, gliding in to a system, or with accelerating near to light speed in preparation for another jump getting them on their way. So if he said he was mehandor and had lived upon that ship called Lirela out of Lepso all his life, then it followed that he must be somewhat older than he looked to be-he was not yet twelve, meaning he should have the identity card say that he was just passed thirteen.

The street opened into a square from which smaller lanes led on, roads winding their way among buildings having come close and crowding together as the people did. The air by now was becoming pungent with spices sold openly at stalls at that square, and living plants obviously meant for cooking and, Gods, fresh meat of different kinds just hung up openly within transparent cooler boxes. Wasn’t that unhygienic? Cooler boxes, Gods gracious, instead of stasis fields! One could even smell that meat, oh, Gods-

With an effort, Atlan concentrated upon the far better smell of cooked and grilled food offered at a side-table just as openly in the street. Small objects looking like fish, and smelling most appetizing, were laid out upon the bluish leaves of plants and halfway covered by an orange sauce. All of that beneath the open sky where Gods-knew-what kind of dust or contamination could be driven down by the wind. People pointed at a piece of their choice and got it offered upon small plastic plates, uncovered and ready to eat where everyone stood, dripping sauce carelessly down upon the pavement where others stepped in and carried that sauce on upon the soles of their shoes. Gods. And no-one seemed to care. Where were the cleaning bots which were whirring past unobtrusively and ubiquitously upon Gos Ranton? At least people were eating in a civilized and familiar manner, using the common three sticks anyone used in the Tai Ark’Tussan who had at least as many fingers or claws. Spoons were offered too, to eat a kind of soup, and extra cutters for those who wanted their food pieces even smaller and did not prefer to bite off from bigger pieces if the need arose.

So far, so good. One could even eat like that as the others did-granted that one did not disgustedly avoid having food laid out for tontas openly and in public. Eeek. But the smell and sight were surprisingly appetizing nevertheless.

The young prince realized that he was simply hungry. It was time he got some money so he could buy food-proper food in a restaurant, coming from the kitchen freshly, and served within khelas after preparation. Right.

Looking around Atlan saw that he must have arrived in the old district of the town as the helpful woman had described it. The buildings rising at every side of the square were of dark stone and looked less than clean, and offered deep sales vaults along their fronts where the pavement was sunk deeper than street level. Steps led down to those small walkways, and only one winding path. From the entrances further steps and sloping paths led into the vaults, but people seemed not to have any trouble with negotiating that.

Gods, whatever had happened to thomkay lifts upon this world? There wasn’t one in sight, though there must be several. The ads-yes, there the elderly woman had been right too-proclaimed a far greater number of shops down in one of these vaults than could be set up on but one or two floors, and the constant stream in and out of that building averred the same. All these people could not have climbed up and down such distances just on their feet and upon steps, upon staircases!

Right. The young prince pulled himself together and started down one of the lanes between tall and somewhat rambling buildings. The shops here offered new items, and did not sell used goods, nor did they offer to buy such.   
New! and Recent Discovery! and All The Rage! were advertised in all the colours possible and beyond that ceaselessly. Shaking his head slightly Atlan went on. He would get a headache if he had to stare at these holo displays for much longer without pause. Gods, no-one here had any artful taste. Advertisement existed upon Gos Ranton too, of course-but there art designers saw to it that the colours and patterns and shapes were pleasing to the eye and invited a closer look, and that smells and sounds fit the whole performance. Here the smells of-Gods, what was that-?

Atlan choked for a moment. He was not sure what was giving off that stink, but it seemed to be a mixture of vomit-that smell he knew, thank you-and –hm-there was a certain whiff of ammonia involved-

He hurried on. All he knew was that several puddles had stood upon that piece of ground in that niche, and simply were left there to dry. Organic, that stuff was, as much was clear. Gods, could that be-urine? He never had smelled it when it was not fresh and was just leaving his body to be sucked up by the toilet. Gods, eeeeek!

Such details of dingy and dirty colonial towns and streets the vid series about the brave Celista had not shown. He should be careful which surface he was touching with his bare hands, as much was clear. How come the people here were not all sick and needed medical attention if they had to live in such dirt, smelling such smells?   
But the dirt and the smells were getting worse with each of his steps farther into the maze of small lanes and sales vaults, and after a few khelas, Atlan could no longer avoid stepping into patches on the ground which indicated that something had been spilled there some time ago and had not been cleaned away properly, leaving marks. Gods. He’d buy a good package of disinfectant and sonic cleaner pads as soon as he had money, before he bought food. Honestly. Eeeeek, eeeeek, eeeeeek!

The boy shuddered slightly and hurried on. The odd thing was that no-one but him seemed to pause over these matters. Even the people obviously coming from off-world did not seem even to notice, and-  
Horrified the young prince stopped in his tracks as just before him a portly man, disgustingly and distinctly smelling of sweat, spat out upon the pavement where everyone walked, and uncaringly went on. Gods, he would have stepped into that spit if he had gone on-

And go on he must, keeping from drawing attention. Grimly Atlan steeled his nerves and tried to ignore the smells and the discoloured patches upon the ground, or the spots where sauce must have dripped or some such things.   
He must do as everyone else did, he admonished himself, and act as if this-this Gods-be-mess-was normal and the common thing, and as if the absence of cleaner bots was nothing to be concerned about. 

Disinfectant, a lot of wonderfully perfumed disinfectant, oh yes, Gods.

The neighbourhood became dirtier, the ads became even more colourful and ubiquitous and aggressive. In between bars and places that sold food and drink of whatever kind in one lane the services of hairdressers and cosmetics were offered, and the services of sexual workers of both genders of Arkonath, and those of other peoples interspersed in between.

Atlan wrinkled his nose. From the Court of the Gos Khasurn and the custom among the Thi Khasurnai he knew of the existence of courtesans, of course, of both genders too, some of which were very fashionable and quiet celebrities, and every one of them was an artist and honoured for the services they offered society on the social side no less than for the joy one felt seeing the works of art they made of themselves, all of them highly educated and several of them the most elegant fashionistas and reported to make a night with them an experience one seldom forgot.

A night with a courtesan approved for the Court at the Gos Khasurn was, of course, quite an expensive joy. The sers and seras offering their services here, quite blatantly showing their bodies in the nude in the holos one had to walk through, surely were cheaper to be had, but whether they were as careful and, far more to the point, medically hygienic and clean was quite another matter, judging from the state this whole neighbourhood was in.

Three brothers offered their services for single and lonesome seras, posing invitingly in the nude with smiles and arms opening, and penises erect. The short vid one had to walk through suggested a wonderful tonta the sera in question would never forget, three for the price of two-Gods. At least these three men had some grace and looked somewhat aesthetical in their naturalness. Different from the sera in the next ad, posing with enormous breasts.

Atlan grimaced. Did these people here have no taste and no sense of harmony and art? Right, there were men who liked big breasts. But these here were out of any proportion. Still, the boy thought, hurrying on, he should not judge what he did not understand, and had no personal knowledge of yet, and would not for some time to come. He had had the crystals on sexuality one got run after one had become eleven, of course, but for him, the Crystal Prince of Arkon, a relationship was not feasible too early and was a highly political thing, not a personal matter between two people, his mother had explained to him. Nothing to trouble him yet, the young prince thought. He definitely was not interested, and would not have been if he had been four years older. He would not have touched a sex-worker in this dirty area with a fingertip.

The shops in the sales vaults changed again, the pavement having sunk even lower. Sex worker ads retreated to the smallest side paths leading directly down into the buildings and disappeared with the next turn, while the ads promising Good Bargains! and As Good As New! suggested that he neared his destination, a shop where he could sell the devices he had removed from the lifeboat. 

The boy passed several vaults, having to shoulder his way quite roughly through the crowd from time to time. He was losing his shyness of touching other people and being touched by them swiftly. If this was the custom here, so be it-a Dagor sparring match or a Room where he was to fight through five or more attackers was no less a free-for-all where he got touched, and less carefully.

Tschetrum’s Best Bargains! Offering Good Payment! Honest and Professional Assessment! Open Round the Clock! drew the young prince’s attention seriously at long last. With that ad he at least could be sure that this Tschetrum was buying, and the large holos turning in front of his sales vault, which was quite a spacious affair, the dingy neighbourhood notwithstanding, proved that he was dealing in any kind of technical devices and electronics, positronics and the like. Even robots of several kinds were displayed quite professionally at one side of that vault, and large signs invited the customer to come down to the cellars where the best and most well-assorted store area of the whole planet was to be looked through, and where the workshop offered Best Bargains! for repairs. The man had even invested into a mildly hypnotic voice whispering into one’s mind when one came nearer, the type of thing one would believe in under kat or trank, watching and playing virtual shows and games, and the usual soft music in the background, which here was a drumming sound suggesting robots assiduously working.

Tschetrum had quite a bunch of customers and obviously believed in the virtues of living personnel giving advice to them and explaining matters and offering deals. No smiling plastic face of a servo bot here save for the one walking around offering plain drinks and a sweet to those who had closed a deal and had paid.

Atlan kept to the back and tried to unobtrusively watch first, trying to read the prices of wares offered and to gauge which prices, therefore, he might ask for the perfectly working devices he had in his duffel. That the contents of the bag had been scanned upon his entrance he was relatively sure of; this shop and its keeper seemed to be too professional to forget about that. Of course, he had no proof that the gadgets in his bag rightfully belonged to him.  
But this Tschetrum did not seem to be a man who would turn down a reasonable offer even if the origins of the wares he sold were somewhat shady. Perhaps he might even ask him about where to get an ID-? The Golamo agents, who in their turn had to flush out illegal data-forgers, often observed fence men and started from there, and the leads went to the desired target more often than they got lost in the sand. If this Tschetrum was a fence man he might have similar backing and background-might, not would have for sure. He would have to be alert and try to catch hints.

Step by step, as if casually, the young prince came nearer to the desks lining one side of the salesroom and its back, looking around as if he was deliberating still what to buy, and perhaps what to sell. With the lively coming and going of people, several customers passing him calling for the attention of a shop assistant behind a desk, he had to see to it he kept his back free and covered, and so kept himself to the side; at least two of the men who were haggling looked to be doubtful characters, and Atlan knew too well that the neater ones, looking more harmless, might be the ones more dangerous.

“Never trust a man who is acting too obvious or one who acts too unobtrusively!” Sek-athor Kehene had warned, and here upon this planet the young prince saw his dictums made real and come true the first time.

The one who was Tschetrum himself was identified quickly. He served the customers as assiduously as did the other shop-assistants, but he had a posture of authority which the others quite clearly deferred to, proclaiming that fact by their body-language as openly as if they had shouted it out loud.  
In addition, he got asked discreetly now and then, perhaps for prices or assessments, and then came to the shop-assistants side to solve the problem, and the tiny gestures he gave with fingers and looks guided his employees as well. Atlan caught at least five such exchanges as he watched as unobtrusively as he could, using the highly polished and therefore reflecting metal of a household robot he stared at as if in fascination.

The elder woman who had taken ages over choosing a cleaning machine from among the three offered ones left, her purchase neatly encased in its box hovering and gliding after her by the hover pad-and-ring added to the package as a free gift of the firm for the sake of promotion. That the pad-and ring would stop working after a berlon was usual; the tiny energy cell could not support longer periods of use and so was pretty cheap to be had. No great loss to Tschetrum, but a nice touch that might win him more customers.

Atlan smiled appreciatively and suddenly realized that the shop-owner, who had his long beard plaited into two shining white braids, was watching him as sharply and closely as he had done it with him. The only slightly contorted mirror-image showed it unmistakeably.

Oh. So he had drawn Tschetrum’s attention already.

The young prince threw a guarded look around the shop and saw that only three other customers were left who all of them were already served, and the shop’s owner was free. Right. An opportunity presented itself.

Taking a deep breath Atlan turned and smiled winningly at the braided man, who smiled back politely, not showing any disdain for the sloppy and somewhat disheveled appearance of his young customer.

“Ser, I hope you can help me”, he said, walking up to the desk and facing the man openly, keeping his gaze locked to his. Open approach, open hands, suggesting honesty and harmlessness.

Tschetrum gave a small bow. “I will do my best”, he answered. His voice betrayed the same drawn-out vowels and slightly softer pronunciation of the consonants the elder woman in the groundcar had exhibited also. Seemed to be the local dialect. Well, he was foreign and had no reason to hide it, and would speak as he was wont to do-with mehan’ido slang thrown in, and keeping off Court Arkona expressions, of course.

With a swing, the boy heaved the duffel upon the desk.

“There's a few gadgets I have to sell. Hope you’ll take them.”

Tschetrum gave a slight inclination of the head and took the bag, opened it.

“Let’s have a look at them.”

The perfunctory look he gave the items at first as he drew them out, the tracker and the radio and the mass taster, proved to Atlan without a doubt that automatic scanners had caught sufficient data of his merchandise, and that Tschetrum already had got it the same moment-how? Data lenses, linked-in with the reader-scanner? 

Yes. The dealer blinked rapidly three times as he gave his young vis-à-vis a deceptively cursory glance. Seemed that the scanner had not covered all of him as he had entered but did now. Well, he had no weapons concealed-yet.

Broadly smiling the boy met the gaze of the dealer firmly. “But a vibro-knife in my pocket, ser”, he said, “And that one small. It’s a simple tool, ser.”

The man gave back a grim smile. “In trained hands the smallest tool can become a weapon-and I believe that you know that-ser, young as you are.”

At Atlan’s surprised look he added in a voice as grim:” You catch on a little swiftly with my lenses-there are few people who would know about the method at all who are not trained in the area. As well you have taken pains to keep your back free and to watch me for khelas. I’m not used to behaviour like that from other thirteen-year-old minors-if minor you are, and not somewhat older than you look like, mehan’ skhe’.”

Oh. Gods. There went the subtle deception he had thought he was using, the young prince thought, forcing himself to stay calm and suppress the panicky feeling that wanted to rise in his throat. Calm. Take a breath. Another.  
The while his thoughts raced frantically. Mehan’ skhe’-that was a zarak-idiomatic expression for a mehandor, halfway depreciative and halfway respectful, comparing the one to a skety, and quite a common way of addressing a mehandor. Right-the man was going into the right direction, being lured into believing the Crystal Prince of Arkon to be a mehandor brat, but how-? That should have stayed hidden for longer, and also the fact that he knew fighting and agent’s devices, which pointed at him being trained. He had hoped to give the impression of a harmless kid-botched right at the start, and he could only surmise that that had to do with the fact that he simply did not know what was common training and knowledge, and what was not. To this man, he had revealed himself as a trained fighter, already-and a mehandor. So by this, he had to go on, and did not yet know how, and where. Gods dammit, Lakhroskhe’ dan-to hell with it all!

Smiling gently Atlan showed his open hands. “I do not know what you are talking about, ser. I just want to offer you a few items, used, yes, but in a very good condition, as I may add, and have hoped that-“

“Yes.” Tschetrum leaned forward a little across the counter and smiled coldly.

“That they are used but quite good I can see and could see from the start, as you so well noticed, young ser. As few people would notice, as I also said. They have been cut neatly from-wherever they come from, but by hand, as one sees at first glance. With a simple zheyan cutter, I’d say-but surprisingly professionally. A simple thief who grabs what he can doesn’t normally know about where the contacts go and which ones are useful to leave on the item and which ones one can cut off without diminishing the value. The devices you are proposing to sell, young ser, have been extricated from their-ah, place of origin-by a professional engineer. And such a one would not use a hand-cutter, ever; he’d have a specialized bot to do that work for him- if he was not a professional in another way too and would want to avoid anyone searching that bot’s memory for data of such manipulations.”

The young prince was staring dumbfounded. What the man was saying, in other words, was that he thought him-or the one who had cut the gadgets out of the lifeboat-to be a professional criminal, and therefore he, who came to sell them, must be a Shader too! Gods, he had cut out the devices simply as he knew them to work-mehet’ kal, he never had known that his education was that outstanding and professional, but of course, he should have taken his rank into consideration and uncle Cunor’s efforts to have him know what he did and later would have to order others to do, and if one had to learn how to run a Room, and-

“So. What does Cormon Thol want?”

The voice and the gaze of the braided dealer had become decisively cold and dangerous. His look, trained at the boy’s face, could have bored holes into a steel plate.

Atlan was at a total loss. He never had heard that name and had no idea what its use denoted, or hinted at.  
That this Cormon Thol must in some way be a shade, a zarak-tho, a shadow-man, was clear, though, and a leader of such a group, a zarak-athor, most likely.   
And Tschetrum thought him a shade in his employ, and yet did not call the police-that implied that the shop-owner was a zarakh’ himself, perhaps of a different and competing group who nevertheless would deal and cooperate. A zar’mehanth’, a shadow dealer, a fence man, as surmised, that he must be.

Good. Exceedingly good, in a way-because this man might sell him what he needed, a fake ID and weapons and tool kits of a kind and composition any honest artisan would not need and ask for.

But it was also bad, very bad because he had no idea whatsoever who this Cormon Thol was and which role he played here upon this world, and what he should answer this man.

He had hesitated too long, the boy suddenly knew. The other customers had left, and no further ones had come in-a swift look over his shoulder showed him that a red sign denoting “Closed for environmental hazard” had appeared in the doorway, which was shutting now with a whoosh, sealing them in, while two shop-assistants were moving forward, passing him to get at his back.

Gods! Forward or back? At his back was a closed door, which was controlled by this Tschetrum-forward!

The braided shop-owner was not prepared for the youth’s hair-trigger reaction, which went swifter than anything he ever had seen. Of course, he knew the youth must be trained, but this-!  
The mehandor jumped up and vaulted the desk, leaping up farther from there and throwing a somersault in the air, and was behind him faster than he could react to, even he. The moment he realized his sudden danger Tschetrum felt a hard grip at his neck, ready to punch his nerves there, and heard the hum of the vibro- knife too uncomfortably near to his left ear.

“As you so correctly assessed before, ser, in trained hands the smallest tool can become a weapon. I’d advise you and your men to refrain from sudden movements right now.”

The fence man exhaled deeply and gave his men small signals with his fingers, telling them to obey. He was not interested in having his ear cut off, or worse.

“Your reaction to my question, young ser, is a little extreme, I think”, he said carefully, not daring to turn his head or move at all, his hands at his sides halfway in the air. He knew that the boy’s grip at his neck, which had not let up at all, could fell him like an axed Triap within the sarton, and then he’d lie helplessly exposed to that humming knife.  
Gods, he’d been such a fool-he’d guessed the boy came from Cormon Thol’s Corgon, hadn’t he? Why had he forgotten to think of the Corgon’s methods, or of the state some enemies of that organization were found in sometimes-or their corpses?

The mehandor youth laughed shortly. “You’re not my Arksako whom I’d be patient with, ser”, he replied, betraying himself again with that phrase and word. Though he had apparently cut off his braid, which was an extreme measure for any mehandor to take, he had perhaps subconsciously dressed mehandor wise, and he was moving like a spacer and talked as an off-worlder-but which really had given him away from the start was the fact that anyone so well-trained and clearly a kath-zarakh’ could not be so young a boy. Simple equation-only mehandor were exposed to sublight flight at high velocity to an amount that made them look that much younger than they were.

“Mainly I was reacting to being locked in with several men moving in upon me-I somewhat dislike such situations, ser. As I dislike indiscreet questions.”

Tschetrum exhaled again.

“I regret the move”, he said simply, hoping the youth would accept the offer of a truce. He had the upper hand right now, but in the long run, they stood at stalemate-he could have the shop-owner move wherever he wanted, but they were in his shop, surrounded by his men, and he would have too many opportunities to try to free himself-the mehan’skhe’ must know he ran a high risk holding him upon his own territory.

The youth was silent for a khela, apparently thinking through eventualities, and keeping that grip. That kath zarakh’ knew what he was doing-he was thinking his options through before he acted, which proved him to be even more dangerous. Or was he deliberating what he would do with his hostage?

Tschetrum felt cold sweat gather upon his brow. Had a group of Corgon men already gathered outside in the street, or, worse, somewhere in the building? He knew that he had run the blade’s edge a few times with Cormon Thol and his men, offering bargains harder than what the Corgon usually got, and getting away with it-up to now. But others had not, Gods, Zelathrol have mercy, others had not-was it his time now?

Then suddenly the hard grip was gone, and the hum of the knife stopped.

“Accepted”, the youth shortly said, in a cold and neutral voice. A step sounded-the mehandor had apparently moved away from him a little.

Tschetrum had to lean forward against the counter, his suddenly shaking knees would not have supported him at that moment, and breathed in deeply, waiting for his strength and nerve to return. That the mehan’skhe had relented did not mean that danger was over, he was keenly aware of that. It was entirely probable-no, logical-that Corgon reinforcements waited nearby, or a youth like that would not have been sent to walk in such a manner, offering goods that had to have been gotten highly professionally, revealing himself as a shade and a spacer-this was a testing, the last chance the Corgon was giving him, offering goods and at the same time giving a warning, showing the blade only half-concealed in its sheath. His services must be useful and in-demand still, or Cormon Thol would not have bothered to send this young venom-fanged snake who came in as half a temptation and half a threat but would have sent in his hit-squad, leaving but smoking ruins and mutilated corpses.

He had halfway botched it-but he still had his chance, it seemed. The youth must have been ordered to accept a truce, good-he was the best in his calling and even Cormon Thol thought him useful, apparently. Now he had to play this well, most well, and must not make the smallest mistake anymore, and must offer a very good bargain and be very careful and discreet. Gods, he might jump off the hook yet-

Slowly the bearded fence man turned and looked at him. Atlan saw how the man’s fingers trembled, much as he tried to conceal it. The pupils of the light-red eyes were dilated in fear, and sweat gleamed on the man’s brow; he was breathing shallowly and too swiftly. This man was afraid, deeply afraid. The one responsible could not be him, a youth of fourteen at the max, with a small knife in his hand-the fencer man must fear this Cormon Thol he had mentioned, apparently a zarak-athor, and his organization. The whole situation was unexpected, but-

“Opportunities will present themselves.”

And this was an opportunity too good-and too dangerous-to miss!

“Let us reverse positions again.” The young prince was in a defensive position right now, without a weapon between this large man and the wall, the man’s employees all around. He had to keep the initiative and ride the momentum, and make the others react, and keep a step ahead. He had to impress them again and drive it home to them that he held the upper hand and was at liberty of movement!

Out of standing still, the mehan’ skhe threw a standing somersault right across the counter again, came neatly and elegantly to his feet, and turned briskly, showing a cold smile. That young snake had given up any pretension of being unobtrusive or harmless. The posture he stood in now was self-assured and even commanding, and gave him a presence that seemed to fill the room before he moved forward again, a simple boy once more. But Tschetrum knew now-Gods, he knew.

“Now, as I said-I have a few gadgets to sell and hope that you can help me.”

“Yes, ser. Right away, ser.” The shop-owner smiled politely, though his hands still shook slightly as he opened the duffel again, taking out the steering device as well.

“Very good quality indeed, ser, and-ah-obviously extricated by a professional engineer. The pieces are fully operational and can be sold immediately, very good shape indeed, ser.”

Atlan politely inclined his head, keeping the men in his sight. But they all had even moved back, no-one was making a threatening or even unfriendly move. All smiled and kept their empty hands upon the desks-Gods, this Cormon Thol must be feared indeed. He would have to find out all about him as swiftly as it was possible. If the man was such a powerful zarak-athor he might be able to oppose the government-and might be a perfect ally and helper for a young mehandor who had to avoid the police and all the official people of this planet.

Tschetrum took a deep breath.

“Four thousand, savvy?”, he said, knowing that he had offered almost double what he normally would have paid up. But the gadgets were of excellent quality indeed and had all the parts intact and complete-he would even earn quite an amount with reselling them and stay up on the winning side. That price was even fair.

The young snake raised an eyebrow and cocked his head slightly, apparently calculating, and then snapped his fingers. “Savvy”, he agreed.

Gods. If ever Tschetrum had wanted proof for his surmises about the youth belonging to the Corgon and out for his throat he had it now-any thief, any criminal working for himself would have tried to haggle now, would have tried to up the excellent bargain, seeing the fencer was in such a giving mood. Not this youth. He took him at the price he offered, though the offer was a very good one. But of course, for the young mehan snake other things mattered than the price he got. That sarpa fang held its venom still-make a wrong move, and the snake would strike and call in the men waiting, he could just imagine the youth make an unobtrusive move-he had seen no com on the scanner, but that did not say anything with the stuff Cormon Thol had access to. 

Tschetrum smiled and inclined his head, breathing deeply and trying to hide the shaking of his fingers, and saw how closely the youth watched him, catching his tiniest moves-and now the mehan sarpa smiled a little, just a very little, such an icy and –downright lethal smile, and gave him the tiniest of nods. They understood each other-yes, they understood each other. He was allowed to live on if he paid up and kept discreet, and did this youth’s bidding and supported Cormon Thol’s plans-which might go far beyond the chastising of an unwary fence man. Something was up, something was going on at the spaceport-the KOLOSS was out in full force and was searching for someone. Could be that the Corgon had its fingers in that soup-could be this boy was going to run quite another, and larger gant for Cormon Thol than he could imagine. He looked half a child, no more than thirteen, perhaps fourteen- being a mehan shade he might be as old as eighteen or even more. But he would pass as a child if he disguised himself just a little, and children could pass unobtrusively where any adult was apprehended. Of course, this was why the mehan’ skhe had sacrificed his braid-that would have marked him mehandor on the spot, and anyone seeing him would have thought of him being older than he looked like in time. Not now; not many people were as sharp as he was, Tschetrum thought with confidence rising a little again, and would not realize they were facing a kath zarakh’ with venom in his fangs. Cormon Thol had found the best shadow he could have slip in anywhere, ever.

“I hope you can help me further, ser.” The youth was speaking briskly and calmly, not threatening at all, in a strictly business-like tone.

“For obvious reasons- I need an ID card that cannot be traced to-my employer in any way. I shall need one for just –this occasion. Can you recommend someone to me, and introduce me?”

The bearded shop-owner bowed, deeper than he would have with any other customer. So now came the second part of this testing-he was to equip Cormon Thol’s shadow, who then would carry nothing that could be traced to the Corgon directly, and who had slipped through controls all innocently, carrying nothing at all-but a harmless vibro-knife, and spare parts out of his father’s light flyer he was sent to town to sell. Damn clever, that story.

“Tonth is a master of his kind, ser. I will gladly have my first assistant drive over to him with you and introduce you personally-I will call in advance, and he will be pleased to serve you immediately. Is there anything else-?”

“Yes. “ Atlan believed that he could go farther with this man. Tschetrum was clearly thinking him to be a kath-zarakh’ for this Cormon Thol, and feared him for it, and was avid to do his bidding. He had to use this opportunity. Weapons, technical equipment-he would not get anything as safely, and of better quality, and without questions anywhere upon this planet at this point, as much was clear.

“Weapons, equipment-I will pay, of course.”

Tschetrum actually chuckled at this pointed joke. They were all aware, of course, that the youth could have equipped himself from his shelves without giving back a single skalito. That he paid with the sum he was offered by Tschetrum proved, once more, that getting a good bargain and selling the devices as such was about the last thing that mattered to the youth.

“Yes, ser, Right away, ser-would you like to follow me? My more discreet bargains are offered at a special vault.”

The youth inclined his head almost regally and followed the shop-owner as they had agreed, but he held up his hand shortly as two of Tschetrum’s men tried to come with too. He sent them just one look-icy-cold warning, that gaze held, and the men almost jerked back and stopped in their tracks. Of course, everyone had caught on about what was going on-they were not dense, the men he employed, and sat in the same shuttle with him, and had understood their master’s signals.

Atlan went down a curving ramp with the fence man into a working hall where repairs were done, and where another five men were busy with robotic tools and ‘tronic pads. They looked up and away as quickly at a signal of their employer, while they crossed the hall and came up against the back wall where shallow shelves full of spare equipment covered everything.   
At a touch of Tschetrum’s hand one shelf moved outward, soundlessly and running upon a hover field-clever, but classic, and something any boy, having watched vids on a brave Tu-ra-cel agent, would have thought of.

Behind, though, a room full of really good equipment upon shelves lay, bathed in brilliant light once that door of shelves had closed.

The mehan sarpa nodded appreciatively and moved into the center of Tschetrum’s secret store, slowly turning around himself and looking, just looking. The fencer saw how swiftly those eyes moved, taking in all the offers and gauging them himself instead of asking for this and that-Gods, this was a real kath zarakh’, a fighter on guard level and even better. The looks proved that the youth knew exactly what he saw, and could assess the equipment’s worth to the nines. 

The shop-owner kept himself very still. He knew he was putting his head into the Yilld’s claws right now-with that equipment the young mehandor could take him out and kill him within the khela. Though he most likely did not need even that, but could kill with his bare hands, just as easily; Tschetrum was no novice himself, but he knew a better fighter when he saw him.

“Right.” The mehan sarpa went forward, decisively, and took up a needler gun, snapped it open and took up several magazines of different kinds-ones that officially were designed for this kind of gun, and ones that only real experts knew did fit. The others which looked like they fit but did not, on the next shelf, he did not even gaze at a second time. Then he walked along the shelves, took a box of wire here and a contact there, a wrist-com and the programming pad that could augment its functions by five hundred percent, some general tools of the best quality and a few special tools that told the well-versed master of deft-fingered machinists that this youth knew their trade too, most likely concerning positronics. Gods-that youth was perhaps planning to hack something really sophisticated, was sent to gather data no-one else could-a big gant, a really big gant must be about to be run here. 

Tschetrum felt cold, wordlessly watching the youth. The methodical and absolutely efficient way he used to tuck stuff away, to pocket things-the perfectly professional way of moving he had, no action, no touch superfluous, no haste, but no hesitation or waste of a single sarton-Gods, a professional killer could not move more efficiently-

Swallowing hard the fencer felt his knees tremble again, and icy-cold sweat break out on his skin once more. Perhaps-perhaps there was no great group of Corgon men waiting, but only a small one, which was more probable, or his detecting systems should have given alarm by now. Perhaps this youth was good enough to take out several men within the shortest order, perhaps this was what he was-a professional killer, the shadow slipping by no-one noticed, the snake that bit in secrecy and only left the dead behind, but no clue else-the Corgon was said to kill like that, and Tschetrum knew that the rumours were no tall tales but true ones. Gods, gods-would he get out alive of this storage vault?

All too soon the snake was done and turned to him, saying he had what he wanted, and asked the price as any honest customer would have done. He had pocketed quite a lot, but only little was visible in his hand, all the other equipment was stowed in a way that simply didn’t show.   
Tschetrum would have liked to shout ”Take it all for nothing, but let me live!”, but of course that would not do, it would have proved that he had seen through this youth’s harmless camouflage and knew him for what he was, and that would have been his death sentence for sure. So he just named the price, an honest one, and managed to stammer only slightly, which made the youth raise a brow-and then he smiled that little icy-cold smile again, and inclined his head in apparent irony, their gazes meeting openly. Yes, they understood each other.

“I am content and will report in that manner”, the youth calmly stated. “Tomorrow I will come again and offer another batch of goods. Cormon Thol likes to deal with honest businessmen.”

Tschetrum managed a false smile and exhaled, knowing that he was granted the grace of at least another day. If he managed to keep this deadly customer content he might escape the Corgon’s retaliation-perhaps for a longer time, and perhaps at all if he kept to being far more careful than he had before. This was a lesson to him- a real lesson.

He bowed, more deeply than ever. “I am gratified, ser. I am looking forward to meeting you again. “

Up in the shop room it was business as always, customers had come in again and were happily haggling away, buying and a few of them selling. The shop owner gave his most dangerous customer ever a credit chip containing the exact sum remaining-a bit more than two thousand and five hundred chronners-and sent him on his way with Mherako, who would drive him to Tonth. Tschetrum went in a hurry to advise the forger of his approaching customer and told him to do his very best, please-and then sat down like a Tashmayim puppet set to the side, hiding his face in his hands. Gods, he was alive-nothing had happened, not yet-not yet, and perhaps he would stay unmolested-

Tonth truly was a master of his kind. He was tall and thin, and had eyes that flickered everywhere, taking in everything, but on the contrary to that he seemed a very calm person and kept himself rather still and unmoving.

Atlan was offered several kinds of faked ID’s, ranking from cards containing the client’s true data to spitty-fakes that would not hold a second glance of a guardsman-that too had its uses, of course.   
Declining the best quality the young prince opted for second best. It would not do if here upon this backwater planet of the oily season someone had his real data. But faked data, very close to the original and only to be found out with the very best of scanners which perhaps only the Tato himself had his guards use, was good enough and would let him live comfortably upon this planet. The price, fifteen hundred chronners, was fair and about what he could afford, and was paid up at once after the forger presented his work, half a tonta later. The man had really bestirred himself and done his best, as much was clear when the card was run through scanners on trial.

Tonth smiled and rubbed his hands, and bowed deeply to his customer as Atlan left. Tschetrum never recommended unworthy people, and this boy-mehandor, of course, and therefore his age was questionable-this boy had acted so calmly and self-assuredly, had behaved like any adult, his face not giving him away with any question-this boy must be a shade, and not a harmless one. Tschetrum had used the catch-phrase that said the boy was Corgon, and-that fit, that damn-to-the gods fit. He also had hinted at a great gant about to be run, and had mentioned the spaceport-and wasn’t something big going on there, right now? If the Corgon reached out and put its fingers into that soup-then ordinary people should run the other direction, for cover.

It was a simple robot taxi the young prince used for driving away. If one had the means-and this Tonth surely had-it would be easy enough to find out where he had gone later on, but for that reason he ordered the chauffeur ‘tronic to redirect and go to Port Hub, where he could change into a hover bus back to where he had come from-but first, of course, he would get himself something to eat.

In the safe privacy of the passenger compartment of the taxi, Atlan let his feelings surface, and sat with face in hands, his body wracked by a fit of hysterical laughter, interspersed with weeping cramps. Gods-the dictum that one just had to let people surmise away, and then could use their beliefs was so true. The fencer man had thought him to be a member of-whatever this Cormon Thol’s organization was called, and had worked himself up into thinking him to be a killer by profession, if he had interpreted those stunned and horrified looks right-and that posture and the man’s trembling…

Gods. He had done what Sek-athor Kehene had always told him to do with the game of Who-am-I, let his skills be seen without showing off or timidly hiding them-and that dealer had thought the more of him, his ideas about his customer growing and going out of any proportion with the khela. Demonstrating how one fit oneself out within short order professionally, a skill trained a hundred times for every Room, had been most effective-it had driven home to the man that he was used to doing this every day. And he never had thought to question whether the boy he saw would shoot to kill at all! Of course, though, such skills were used normally and were not trained just for fun-as his skills were not, though they had not been put to the test yet, at least not lethally.

A stroke of additional luck was the fact that he had chosen to impersonate a merchanter boy. He had done so for the sake of anonymity, but what he had not thought of-and what everyone seemed to think of first under the circumstances, once his role as a dangerous kath zarakh’ of that infamous Cormon Thol was established-was the fact that mehandor were said to be older than they looked like, due to time dilatation during high-velocity sublight flight.  
He knew that that was true, and that especially youths of his look and age were typical examples for that effect-later on the difference in age was no longer visible upon adult faces-but reality was far less dramatic than hearsay and tall tales were. Half a Tai-Votan at best added to his true age made longer by another such stretch of time-more he had not dared to have Tonth enter upon that identity card, making himself just passed thirteen. That Tonth must have thought him to be older than that nevertheless, having sent him a long look, came home to the young Crystal Prince only now too. Was he that changed by his recent experiences already? Perhaps it also had to do with his behaviour, which, as he was beginning to see, was not like the average behaviour of boys of his age. Naturally, he had been brought up with stricter discipline than the average Arkonath boy had been, he knew that, and he had to represent regularly in the full view of ArkMedia, milliards of people watching his every move and word-one learned to behave calmly and with dignity under these circumstances, and he had even been taught actively how to move, how to behave. So-what age did that tall thin forger think him to be? Fourteen? Fifteen? Could be that much, and fear and incensed fantasy had added even more, the tally rising within the khela with the fencer man, it seemed.   
He would have to be aware of the effect if he met other criminals under such circumstances-but then, the unbelievable luck that matters came together like that, making people think him to be a kath-zarakh’ of an infamous zarak-athor, would not easily happen again.

Gods, it was so hilarious-so epically hilarious he had trouble not to shriek aloud with his laughter.

Gods. So the Gos’athor of the Realm was thought to be a professional killer and a kath-zarakh’ by a professional criminal and his men-they would have a good laugh once more, he and his friends at the Gos Khasurn, when he returned-though the matter was much less funny if one thought of what had come together to make such a deception work. His face had changed indeed in that short time since the TONDON had mis-jumped-he had seen it in the mirror screens on board the assassin’s ship, and on board the lifeboat.  
Deaths watched had added the lines his face bore of late-deaths of the people closest to him, deaths of the people he had loved most apart from his own family-and who had loved him as much, and who had died for him.

Now came a weeping fit the youth rode out with teeth clenched into the fabric of his sleeve, soundless sobs wracking him as he sought to keep silent in order to not alarm the automatic medo system. Gods, oh, Gods-he never had known how it felt to be torn between laughter and tears, though a few classic poems dealt with that matter, poems so wonderful and famous he had had to learn them by heart in literature class. 

“A soothing wave of tears drowns the feverish fire of my laughter, a volcano of hilarity turns my agony to vapour and makes the tears dry up..” he whispered, his face wet with his own tears. The poetess had been sad and joyful at the same time-good emotions and in balance, both of them. But the storms of emotion racing through his body bore no resemblance to such a fine poem-the laughter he felt rise in his throat again, thinking of the white face and the staring eyes of the criminal, was hysterical at best and rather spoke of terror than of fun, and the weeping fit-that one was genuine. 

With a strong effort, Atlan forced himself to recreate the spheres to take in the emotions he could not afford to show once other people saw him. The taxi was approaching the goal he had ordered. One shaking breath after another he took, trying to calm himself. There was no poem one could compose upon such mad flashes of emotion-one would have to play drums and clang cymbals, and accompany that with the noise of shots and screams.

His heartbeat reacted at last to the attempts of calming himself by Dagor breathing rhythm and slowed down, and the breaths became deeper and calmer too.   
Gods-he was no composer as his uncle was, but-if he could move to these emotions and express them by a dance-if he were that good, which he was not-then that would become quite a remarkable dance and a work of art that would win some recognition, he bet. At the Gos Khasurn where all trouble was far away or hidden behind the masks of politeness and policy, matters became just art so swiftly. One could think that all of life was consisting of well-composed movements, all of it under harmonious control where everyone knew what to say, what to do, what to show.

But real life was not like that. Atlan touched his left breast where in the innermost pocket of the too-large jacket the piece of cloth lay against his heart-the cloth which was drenched with Kelta’s and Lesena’s blood, and with the blood of his Silvers. Real life held death and wild sorrow as well as joy, had chaos as well as safety and order, killed as well as it gave rise to fine works of art. Real life was-where he was forced to make use of the skills he had learned, turning them real too, and where he was thought to be a professional killer in consequence. As yet he had not killed, not once in his life. Would that state of innocence change too, soon now, here within this wilderness of a backwater planet? Charkor his cousin was older, was a fleet cadet, and had not killed yet, and said that he fervently hoped for such a moment to be far away still. But in this war most soldiers had to kill, sooner or later, and if it was but Maahks.

“We have arrived, ser. Please exit this car. Thank you for having booked Fast and Safe! We hope to welcome you soon again for another nice ride!”

The voice coming from the colourfully blinking screen was a well-modulated female one, very friendly and almost enticing. Did they play male voices when they detected women riding in the car? What did they do with an Orbeki? Purr?

Smiling wryly the young Arkonide exited the car and swung his empty duffel across his shoulder, and watched the car drive over to the taxi stand where it halted, the doors having turned violet to tell possible passengers the car was free to be used and to invite them for a ride.

Right. He had to see to it he got food and drink into his stomach, and got some more basic articles for himself, like fitting clothes or something to wash his hair with properly-a sonic pad was about the simplest means one could use; and he had promised himself a load of disinfectant.

Food first. Atlan turned and headed straight into the crowd, to lose any watchers who might have followed him, and let himself drift with the constantly moving stream of people. The port was not far off here, but it was far enough from this place, a part of the town where a real hub was spewing people every which where; sales vaults and restaurants, and general markets of every kind thronged together, and made such a din one would have to shout to be heard by one’s neighbour.

The people here did not seem to mind. Atlan let himself drift to the side where the crowds thinned and a large restaurant offered “Bargain meals! A prago’s fare for the price of a luxury meal!” together with large halls going to the side where small shops lined the walls and colourful machines offered games of chance in the center.

The dining hall was the largest of all and invited the youth in with a cloud of competing smells that made his mouth water. This here was proper food, freshly prepared by a robot kitchen and supervised by a living cook who added touches, and got served within the khela of its getting done.  
The diners sat at long tables, entered their order upon the pad at each place, pressed their credit chips into the slots to have them read and the money transferred to the restaurant’s account, and got their meal served by high-speed air tubes running along the center of the tables, tastefully built-in and only noticed by the soft whooshing sounds when the lid at a place opened and a container was elevated up in front of the hungry guest.

The menu was large enough to satisfy every taste, and still easy to navigate, fitted out with large holos of the meals offered and a list of contents that should help people avoiding food that might not agree with their metabolism; warning markers flashed with a meal that might not be good for a person, while with another-the aforementioned Orbeki, for example-the marker turned violet and even let off a whiff of a doubtful smell that was caught by Atlan’s nose and made it wrinkle, while the Orbeki woman across the table actually began to purr in truth and ordered-live brekkars with sauce.   
Gods-but the young Crystal Prince knew by personal experience that Orbeki were able to eat their live food even in the presence of Arkonath people with manners and without making others retch. They simply gave a neat bite and immediately slurped any liquids down, licking their mouths immediately after, and had the food animal in question disappear so swiftly one had no time to ask oneself what their stomachs did with fur or claws. The son of the xenopsych Escantha knew, of course, that they coughed up fur balls together with the hardest bits, later in the day, and could even digest smaller bones.

Atlan decided for a simple but very nourishing dish, cereals with vegetables and three sauces, and got it served within five khelas, a spoon accompanying the three sticks to ladle the sauces where one wanted it, and to gulp down the remnants left in the bowl. People here ate up what they had paid for.  
For a drink, the boy ordered plain water. Golljup juice was too sweet to accompany this meal, and fine wines were not on the menu. Ivaroo was, and kussha and spicy tjilin-that would have served, but one felt too hot after a meal with sauces and tjilin as well.

Eating was a joy a man who never had felt hunger did not know of. The sauces-actually quite plain ones, the boy had seen to it he bought nothing expensive-tasted better than anything he had had for a long time, and the cereals were nicely crunchy and stayed so even with sauce added. Nice. Very nice. 

Atlan did not have to bear down upon himself to take up the spoon at the end of his meal to eat the rest of the sauce with the last bits. This would not have been good manners at the Gos Khasurn-but here very few left their bowls with food still in them. The Orbeki woman across the table licked hers even clean, getting the last drop of sauce-the brekkars had not even squeaked when she had bitten their heads off. But, of course-if Arkonath people ate in public and in company with other people who had live food in their bowls that food, in general, was stunned. Of course, again-Ihlja worms, which were a great delicacy and were traditionally eaten alive still squirmed in a lively manner even in one’s mouth-

With interest, the young Gos athor eyed the menu for something sweet to follow the nice main course. Sweet mushrooms were a treat, but too dear for a boy of the role he had taken up, and crunchy cookies were too like to what he had just eaten. A pudding, then-Jalja fruit, advertised as genuine, and a cup of K’amana to accompany it sounded nice.

He tapped in the order and paid with the chip. Looking up he suddenly saw a little girl stare at him from across the room-a girl no older than seven or eight, and thin, her hair unkempt and matted. She did not sit at a table, but stood to the back- the eyes seemed to be too large for that thin brekkar-like face.

When the pudding arrived she stared harder-not at him, the young prince realized, but at the food. The girl must be desperately hungry but did not even dare to ask people for a chronner or a bite.   
Sudden compassion rose in the boy’s heart. He knew of hunger now, not the pleasant kind after exertion about to be satisfied, but the biting kind one felt when one’s stomach was empty and one still had little or nothing to eat.

With a gesture, he signaled the girl to come over, which she did, wordlessly and still staring at the food more than at him.  
“Take a seat and choose a meal-I’ll pay for it”, he said, not even asking her name. Her eyes grew even larger, then she punched in a number-roasted bread with meat and cheese baked in, a very simple dish. He ordered golljup juice with it and another glass of water for himself and then watched her with astonishment as she gulped the food down, apparently without even chewing. 

Staring at her empty plate she raised her gaze again in wordless and very clear entreaty, and Atlan ordered another round-and a third very soon after. It was unbelievable how much this thin little girl could eat; he would have had absolutely enough after the second round.   
But even she slowed down with the fourth order, eating half of the bread, and then simply took out a dirty scrap of cloth, wrapped the left-over piece into it, and slid down from the seat.

“Thank you”, she whispered, a shy smile gracing her face suddenly, and had run off in the next sarton, disappearing among the people coming in.

Atlan blinked in surprise. His charity had cost him little, half a chronner all-in –all-but for the girl, the food seemed to have been too expensive to afford. Gods-

Another person was watching him intently, he suddenly knew. Turning a little he caught the eye of an older girl-or a very young woman, perhaps. She was dressed quite enticingly and stood with a hand on her hip, her figure coming out quite well that way. Calmly she met his gaze and then looked away with a slight smile, throwing back her hair which flew artfully, framing her face in a different manner. Unhurriedly she walked off, her hips swinging, looking back at him over her shoulder for a moment.

Atlan closed his mouth with a snap. This kind of walk he thought he recognized-perhaps this girl was a courtesan.   
Or something else which was the equivalent, valid upon this backwater planet. She dressed nicely and not at all blatant, which revealed some taste and a feeling for art as it should be. Courtesans were artists of joy-this girl might be such a one.

Well. Time to go for him too, and get the necessities he needed.

Just as he was leaving the big screen on the wall, which up to now had shown colourful landscapes and had played soft music changed, and showed the word “News!” in big yellow letters. The planetary newsfeed, apparently-not without interest for him to get to know the place he was in right now.

And what came first but the search at the spaceport?

Gods! Atlan held his breath. There they were- the men of that governmental troupe, called the KOLLOSS, stopping everyone who wanted to enter the port, searching the area and storming ship’s hangars and storage vaults, looking into port-side shops and even going through the canalization with scanners and robots. The pictures were shown together with martial music; people were informed that a most dangerous criminal from off-world had escaped a prison ship (shown in the background, men in grey fleeter uniforms having marched up to drums accompanying the scene-yes, these were the murderers!). Atlan felt faintly sick, standing there frozen, staring at the huge screen. But so were others watching, and he did not draw attention with his gaze riveted to the news-feed.

Interestingly the news only spoke of a man of slight build, not a boy or a youth. Why? Perhaps the assassins and their allies at the government knew how silly it would have sounded to speak of a “dangerous criminal, having escaped a prison ship of the fleet”, making such a fuss with searching for him, and then having to admit that the murderous kahtodo was but a boy, not yet twelve. And would that not have rung bells, naming a boy of that age, with the people who perhaps already knew that the Crystal Prince of the Tai Ark’Tussan was missing?  
So they apparently trusted in governmental forces to have the information exclusively, who went in search then without the help of the population but could be trusted to find their prey nevertheless.

Atlan shivered. The Servicemen on-screen looked dangerous enough; one thing was clear: the assassins had their group onworld upon Tela-vhelor and had the government and its forces in their pockets in truth. They all were on the hunt for him; they did not officially admit that they were after him, the Gos athor, but they had every access to space sealed tight and were waiting. He truly would have no chance to leave the planet undetected and slip this airtight net. 

Taking a deep breath the young prince turned away from the screen, which now told about a brawl in a hostel between two criminal groups, and walked out. Behind him, the news told of another arrest of a man suspected to be part of the planet-wide criminal organization, the Corgon, who nevertheless had had to be let go, since “Cormon Thol paid the caution in person”.  
Whirling back the boy saw a face on the screen that stuck to his mind: a lean, clear-cut and sharp-featured face, hair almost as long as a noble’s, subtitled” the honourable merchanter ser Cormon Thol”. So that was that feared zarak-athor-and the organization Tschetrum had thought him to belong to was called the Corgon!

The man would perhaps have to be approached to become an ally, the young Gos athor grimly thought. He was stuck down here for good and had to find a way to blend in, to hide among the many people living in this town of Makarsa. He had to find a means to survive, to live-to earn money, that was; who would give a job to a twelve-or thirteen-year-old? Perhaps, if he pointed out that he was mehandor and actually fourteen he would find work. Then he had to find a way to get to the big governmental radio stations and send off a call to Arkon, or at least to Trantagossa; he had hard berlons in front of him, as much he could see. But the first start was made; he had gotten an ID and basic equipment and could go on from there. A place to stay had to be found next, and, first of all, he had to get out of the lifeboat whatever he could sell without giving himself away and then had to destroy the ship. His enemies thought him to be here, by logical elimination; but they could not know that he had aimed for the capital. If they found the lifeboat, though, they would know for sure.

Atlan bit his lip. He had to blow up the ship by self-destructing. That he could do, having all the codes; but that explosion would be damned spectacular and had to be fine-tuned to make sure that no-one could say what the exploded object had been. The fact that he had concealed the boat at a power plant being run by water was fortunate, though. The water might carry small pieces away that had not burned. 

He would have liked to have another weeping fit, right here in the middle of the square. Mother, Father-how far away were they, and how unreachable for him! He was all alone and stood against a whole world, and a group of mad traitors who had killed Lesena and Kelta, and who were out to go against the Imperator himself and his family.  
The only recourse he perhaps might find was criminals-and he had been taken for one, for a professional killer, by a fencer man whom he had dealt with. Gods, Gods, Gods!  
But he kept his calm mien and boarded the hover bus which went almost all the way back to the electric water plants, letting him out where he could take a stroll through the greenery, as a smiling elderly passenger told him-he was young to meet his girl beneath the elmon tree, wasn’t he? Atlan just smiled back, cocked his head, said that the girl had the experience they needed if he could not offer it, and went off to the good-natured laughter of the man who mused aloud about youth and the time of first love.

Gods. Around the bend, the boy leaned against a tree-trunk, suddenly feeling very exhausted. The whole matter was becoming too much for him-help me, get me out, Mekron kel’Dermitron, father, mother, uncle Cunor-

But of course, they could not hear him, could not help him, he was all alone here, lonely as he never had been who had been attended to every moment of his life up to now, whom uncounted security people always had protected.

Only the Gods could hear him now. Sobbing softly and with tears running down his cheeks again he knelt in the proper posture to Zhymelesa and hid his face in his hands, the correct prayer posture to the Goddess who protected those who walked in dark places and begged her to light his way for him, show him where to go-and to give light back to his heart. 

For how long he knelt there the boy did not know after. But slowly he began to feel better, felt the burden upon his heart lighten as he remembered how well he had dealt with the fencer man today, how his skills suddenly had been ready for him to use, how he had managed to turn the situation to his advantage. He was not helpless, he was exceedingly well trained, and what a Tu-ra-cel agent could do he might accomplish too. He just was not aware yet of all the things he might be able to pull off. Already he had an ID and money, which was the most important matter of all, and would have more money by tomorrow. And to get that he would have work to do now.

He had memorized the place of that power plant very well and found it easily. Slipping in he stood in front of the life-boat again, and without further ado started work to extricate another three valuable devices from the pilot cabin. There was more, of course; but some machines were too big like the converter, and some would have given him away too easily, like the engine switchboard which was typical for this kind of craft and none other, and would tell any buyer what kind of ship had been combed for this board. 

That work had gone swifter than expected. Tiredly the young Gos athor laid down the tools-he had better equipment now too-and laid himself down upon the seats to rest. Within the khela he was asleep.

The morrow brought no better counsel. By the sophisticated comm he owned now he could listen to the news and watch the small holo appearing above the plate, but it said nothing new. They were on the search and had intensified it. Right-it would not take long for the searchers to arrive here in this area, and that near to the power plant they would manage to scan the big mass of extra metal housed in here. The whole ship was plastered with his fingerprints. Gods, that boat had to burn, and swiftly!

After a frugal meal of one ration bar and several sips of stale water, the young Gos athor set off again, carrying his gadgets in the duffel, and threw a last long look back at the scratched life-boat. The timer of self-destructing was running and could be fully activated by remote, for which function the wrist-com sufficed.

Walking on to the bus station he boarded the hover waiting there and pressed the contact after it had taken to the air. Suddenly safety screens were up and darkening the windows while the ground and with it the air shook, a blinding white light appearing and disappearing again at their back.

The passengers cried out, and Atlan did the same, acting as if he did not know what was going on. The bus was safely out of reach of the shockwave of that explosion’s impact, but several trees were not, getting thrown by a gigantic fist. Then all was still again; while the bus ran on unperturbed the aircraft of police and fire guard raced by, followed by a glider bearing that emblem of the yellow yilld.

Fly on, fools, Atlan thought with grim satisfaction. You’re going in the wrong direction.

Tschetrum was devotedness personified when he returned to the man’s shop and sold his second batch. The price the fencer offered was more than fair; Atlan did not haggle for more, knowing it would not have been correct.  
Once more Tschetrum gave him that sharp look that seemed to say “I see you, and I know you”, but the man kept from commenting and only bowed most politely when the young customer left the shop again, richer for a few small gadgets and tools one would have trouble to get easily upon the official market.  
That the man was marking down which kind of equipment his young customer bought the young Gos athor knew, but it was irrelevant to him. Most probably he would never see the fencer man again.

A room in a hotel had to be found then, which was a task easier done than feared with the info terminal at the port hub offering all sorts of accommodations, from very cheap-no thanks-to very expensive-no thanks again, from rooms fit for a Therborian-those were tanks full of highly hydrogenated water-to perches a Scü might like. No matter that Tela-vhelor was a backwater planet, the public and the visitors here came from all over the Empire, one saw.

Naturally, rooms for Arkonoid people were easiest to be had. Atlan thought about what kind of room a boy in his situation would take if he were real, and decided for a dingy hotel at the back of an alleyway covered with cracked plaster near to the port hub, but which was surprisingly clean inside, though the interior offered only the simplest comfort.

No matter. The price for a night was exceedingly low compared to better establishments; robotic service was down to a minimum as well, which meant that no-one controlled what he did and when and where. Cleaning was done by two women with a train of cleaner bots which had seen better days, but they whirred along undeterred and sprayed on disinfectant in abundance, a smell which for once was actually pleasing to the young Crystal Prince.

Throwing himself onto the surprisingly luxurious bed he exhaled slowly and relaxed consciously. For a few pragos, this room would be home for him and be his base, wherefrom he would equip himself and reconnoiter, gather data and find a better place to live and get a job. He could work as a simple mechanic of positronics or could offer his services with programming machines. Perhaps as a trainee in a service center, doing everything and taking the simple chores. He would not mind having to obey everyone; it was camouflage anyway and only had to give him shelter and food, and the most basic necessities of life.

Which he had to get for himself now too. With a sigh he rose again and made a list in his head what to buy-at the Gos Khasurn Lesena and his mother’s competent staff had seen to every need of his. Mother and she had decided about his clothes, which had come from the designing of artists and tailors of the highest prowess; he had had to put them on and had not had to think of anything else.   
The same went for food, or basic necessities like wash gel and a towel to dry one’s wet body after a shower-this hotel did not even offer a drier. At least it offered a shower with water instead of a sonic cleaning cabin as one found it shipboard.  
Comb, teeth scrubber, underwear-Gods, yes, socks-and of course shoes and sports shoes he could move in easily and which fit well. Then there were shirts and trousers to be thought of and a proper fitting jacket.

Now he had the money to pay for all of that and more besides. But he had to think of the times ahead-what if he did not get a job soon? Food was paramount and came first, and a mehandor boy on his own, lost and poor, would not buy expensive clothes, but look for used ones that might fit him. Right-he had passed such shops as he had looked for a shop that would buy his gadgets. He knew exactly where to go for a change!

Atlan sighed and threw back his hair, going through it with his fingers. Household chores, these were-Gods, hundreds of milliards of Arkonath people dealt with such matters every prago. He had not, until now, and found it surprisingly hard to think of everything he might need. With other subjects, he was used to doing better! If he thought about what to equip himself with for running a Room he could come up with the detailed list immediately.

Right, then. He would treat his chores like preparation for Running a Room-that was a familiar pattern to help him keep his wits and concentration focused. The first Question was-what would he have to face? Second Question: what would he need for that? And third: how and where to get that?

Answer one: Daily life and a place to stay where he was free from control and unobserved; this hotel here fulfilled the requirements, but could only be a temporary solution. In the long run, it might prove too expensive. 

The boy exhaled and frowned with annoyance. He could calculate his expenses and could think of how to get more money, apart from getting a job which would cost him time too, of course-that was not the problem. From Tu-ra-cel and Golamo data, he knew that every spaceport and every larger town had establishments where games of chance or other games were played, and he was, for example, very sure that he could win easily with a strategy game like Acider or Garrabo and that way make some money. But he wanted to avoid notoriety or drawing anyone’s attention too much; a quiet hard-working youth at a service center was overlooked far easier than a gambler who won too often and made his living off that, and especially if he was a very young stranger. That stratagem could be used only sporadically.

The problem was that he had no idea what the average cost of living was. He had realized that used goods were cheaper to be had than new ones-for example, clothes or technical devices-but he knew not what one needed in detail to live with, and what that should cost. In the Crystal Palace everything had been there for him to use-clothes got washed and repaired and were exchanged with new ones, showers and baths had everything anyone could want for, food arrived before anyone needed to ask-here he had to think of everything himself, and do it himself, which would cost time again. Damn. He simply was not used to living like that and knew not how it should be done! Gods! Answering questions two and three could not be done perfectly yet.

With some feeling, Atlan took up his rumpled jacket and threw it over to the hook at the wall where it of course did not catch but fell to the floor. So he had to get up and hang it up properly and smooth out the wrinkles, which did not work perfectly. The wrinkles stayed, and so did a stain he had not known was there. Oh. How did the staff of the Gos Khasurn get stains out of clothing, and get out wrinkles? Thinking of it, it came to him that he could take the whole jacket to a public washing shop-those he had seen too on the way, small vaults full of clothes hung up in sealed bags-and would get it back nicely done. But wouldn’t that be a lot of effort and time and cost if he did it every prago? Or rather-every second and even third-he had decided for a disreputable and somewhat dingy appearance, sloppy dressing. A few stains and-not exactly freshly washed clothes-would fit that role better, wouldn’t they?

The boy ran his fingers over his shirt and wrinkled his nose, seeing the faint line dried sweat had left upon the fabric.  
After two nights spent asleep on the seats of the exploded lifeboat, and two pragos of wear the shirt wasn’t fresh anymore, and neither was his underwear. He needed spares and several of them. And he would carry a whole pack of clothes to the washing shop, not just only one jacket. That was far more economical. A washer shop was no laundry bin the robotic service dealt with immediately and returned everything a tonta later, fresh and clean, and in perfect shape as it was done at the Crystal Palace.

Very well content with his insights-which he suspected the average Arkonath kid had learned as early as he had learned to do a proper Dagor Cai move-the boy made a short calculation in his head. Living like he did it now his money-a bit more than three thousand four hundred Chronners- would be enough to sustain him for a Tai Votan-when one calculated the price of a night here at the hotel, which was 2, 5 Chronners, and a proper meal, which was as much again. But the expenses for clothes and necessities were not calculated yet, and least of all the gadgets and expenses he would need to get to the radio and call for help. The question was also whether a small needler gun was enough of a weapon to keep him safe; not when he had to fight those KOLLOSS men! He’d need to put a skorge’ together, a device that would shield the gun he carried and other gadgets from the ubiquitous scanners everywhere; as well he would need a larger one to keep better scanners and cameras from detecting him when he had to slip into governmental places, as he knew he must. Some of the parts he already had gotten from Tschetrum, but he would need more. Less than half a Tai-Votan then, and better calculated just three Votani-well, and he wanted to be off this planet sooner than that!  
He’d see. He simply had no idea what the technical material would cost him, and whether it would be so easy to get it either-

First came wash gel, and a towel or two, and underwear and clothes and a bag to carry it, and all the other small items of everyday life he had just thought of. And, yes, a first-aid-kit and something to wash small stains out with and something to mend rips in clothes with and something to clean shoes and cleaning tools with agents to be able to clean off his room after he had worked on his gadgets, so no-one found out, and-Gods!

“Khest’rell Ereinnyann!” Atlan yelled out loud, jumping up. He’d never underestimate the work of milliards of Arkonath parents again who managed whole households and a bunch of kids, kids who needed their gear for schools and their ‘tronic pads and their clothes, men and women who procured and cooked food and got everything clean after, and saw to the needs of husbands and wives and fully worked beside as well-servo bots notwithstanding, which were of a higher price than he had thought, reading the labels at Tschetrum’s shop. Not everyone would be able to afford all the mechanic help one would need, as much he understood by now!

Walking out of the hotel a little more rumpled and stained than he would have wished for, but aware that this appearance was actually good for the role he wanted to play, the young prince set out to get the basic necessities of living for himself.

One of these “general markets” was just around two corners and offered “Everything you need and could want, good bargains!” as the holo promised one had to walk through in front.

In there one took a hover-plate and put the goods one wanted upon it, walking along long rows of shelves. To get at the goods one had to touch the order plate beneath the place the particular product was stacked in; information in every detail upon the products one got with holding one’s hand up in front. A holo answered any question then.  
Wash-gels were surprisingly rare. People used sonic scrubbers with a perfume added, to be refilled every Votan or so. Genuine soap, the nice-smelling kind the young prince was used to having at the Gos Khasurn was not to be had at all, not even a cheaper kind. The soaps and shampoos at the Crystal Palace, of course, were designed by artists and produced upon individual orders, mixed to the taste and demand of the buyer. Genuine herbs and ingredients of plants went into such a product; the people here never seemed to have heard of liquid soap.  
For shampoos they had, at the very best, a powder one rubbed into one’s hair and then combed out again, which promised “hair nourished and gleaming like you never have seen it with anyone before!” The ubiquitous sonic scrubber pad was offered in varieties with perfume again; hesitantly the boy took one at last, realizing the offers were getting no better and genuine shampoo was not to be had here, and if, he would not be able to afford it, most likely. 

A proper first-aid-kit, however, proved to be no problem, and neither was an exotic item like a towel. Socks and underwear looked absolutely uninteresting, but they were not designed for looking good or enticing, they were meant to cover a person, period. With a sigh the young Arkonide let the scanner take his measure and then got the underwear he needed, five sets for good measure, in white tinged greenish, bluish, and with a violet sheen.   
Gods, he’d never let anyone see such garb upon Gos Ranton. Here it was normal to buy such stuff, as he saw, watching a young mother with two children in tow tap the same order pad, the while hectically talking to her offspring to stand still and have the scanner do its work.

Reddi-meal! Was advertised the next row of shelves down. Tasty! Spicy! Sweet! The covers announced, promising a dish warming upon opening, “all you need in your working day”. Reading the contents the boy made a face. Nothing in there was genuine; in fact, it was no different from the pap one got shipboard on a bad day. It was disguised better, and probably tasted better, but that was all.   
On the other hand- the ubiquitous pap, called “Fleet ugly” or “fleet garish” referring to the colour, was perfectly nourishing and healthy and gave the strength and concentration one needed perfectly.  
So with teeth clenched he put a few of these containers onto his hover plate and went on, getting a comb and a teeth scrubber, a sturdy hover case for his worldly possessions one could even carry upon one’s back and went on to the shelf which offered cleaning agents.

With a sinking feeling, he realized that any cleaner bot, even the smaller ones, was too dear for him and took quite a lot of additional equipment to make it run, and would look odd and even draw attention to him having to clean something away secretly when they were noticed at the hotel. Cleaning agents and sonic scrubbers, though, were to be had in abundance and in every possible variation one could think of, and the agents-liquids one put into sweeping pads and even simply let run onto cleaning towels, as the holos demonstrated- were there in many variations too for different purposes and were bought frequently as well. Apparently more people than just him could not afford cleaner bots of every kind; this way of cleaning took menial work and was done by hand! Atlan stared dumbfounded when he realized that, and more when he saw the mother with the two children, a boy and a girl, tap the pads and load quite an amount of the stuff upon her hover plate, and that quite cheerfully. She was used to doing cleaning work by hand, it seemed! Gods! Where was he, here upon this planet? But the answer came up on itself. At the backside of the Debara Hamtar…

So he did the same and got himself a sonic scrubber-“General and handy! You’ll not need anything else! Economic!” and cleaning agents that could deal with anything he might come up within his hotel room while putting together illegal technical devices, got a big container of disinfectant additionally, for good measure, and went on to the cash desk. 

There the holo of a smiling young woman told one the price of one’s shopping and gave advice on the goods while a robot arm packed the whole neatly into a surprisingly small hover bag and the desk took the credit chip’s money transfer. Then he moved on, passing the other five desks, and was out in the street once more, his first shopping upon this planet successfully done.

With smug contentment in his heart the boy went on, skilfully dodging the other pedestrians. He was getting better at living on his own!

In front of a shop for used goods, not only clothes, he realized what else he was lacking: a means to note things down and a map of this town and of the planet.

The note pad he bought-deciding for the best device since the invest, in that case, would pay off-was almost as good as what he had used at home, if less sophisticated, and could tap into communications everywhere. A lot of options and in-built functions he would have to unlock, but was sure he would be able to; the previous owner had not done so, perhaps not having the same savvy with positronics that he had. A projector cube with all the maps for this world was to be had cheaply, it was a common item for tourists.

When the owner of the shop, another bearded man with braids going down to his waist, saw the interest his young customer had for positronic parts and gadgets, he opened up a door and showed storage full of the best stuff, “at bargain prices”, as he confirmed. Seeing the mehandor boy pick the really best the man smiled wryly and offered an actually quite high price.  
True to his role as a mehandor, and using a few mehan’ido expressions, Atlan haggled away and got the man down to almost half of what he had asked first, with another gadget thrown in-in exchange for a kink gotten out of a ‘tronic pad the man could not sell because the program had locked down and would not reopen. 

“Seeing ye’re a spacer and a ‘tronic kid, as well as a damned good haggler-well, no wonder-“ the man said in wry acceptance and went to see to the needs of another customer while the young prince sat down with the pad and got it to open up within six khelas. Where had the problem been, actually? Didn’t the people here attend proper classes in school?

The clothes he looked through after were most of them too large. But the shop owner had thoroughly warmed up to his young customer and helped him search, and found a very useful jacket, a spacer jacket, even mehandor in origin and style, which almost fit and had all the odd pockets and slip-ins one could want for.

Atlan was in love with that jacket the very moment he saw it. Dark blue with silvery cuffs and collar, tasteful and unobtrusive enough, but still not drab. The thing had a certain rakish cut and style with it too, looking really good upon him. Together with new half-boots-utility ones, spacer originally, and fitting perfectly, and a cap he looked the rakish adventurer from Arkmedia vid from head to toe.

Turning in front of the mirror screen he grinned at himself and put the cap at an even steeper angle-such clothes he never had been allowed to wear, at the Gos Khasurn. What about fitting trousers of the same kind? And some shirts?

A set of simple shirts, five of them a pack, was found easily. They were a bit too large, but that did not matter. Finding trousers that fit proved to be more of a challenge.

Some more searching brought up a set of dark grey spacer trousers, of the utility kind, and lighter grey apparently meant for dressy occasions, but better on utility far than the unadorned unisex pair the boy right now wore.  
The legs were a little too long and the seams were worn, so the legs had to be tucked into the boots to have them disappear, and the fit-around the hips a bit loose, but well-fitting around the waist-suggested that the trousers had originally been cut for a woman.

But Atlan did not care. They were good enough for him and fit with the jacket, which was the only point, and they were good for tucking items away and made him look the spacer the more, which was the point again. He had realized by now that he could not pose as a native yet, nor could he talk like one. So it was better to show off the stranger since he would be known to be one the moment he moved or opened his mouth; here in the capital he would not stick out too much with that either, and with the goals he had-getting to the main radio of government-he would not have another operation area to consider anyway. Perhaps he should even attempt to braid his hair at the back and show off with a mehandor braid. The unruly bangs falling into his face and concealing part of the cheekbones would stay and disguise his features still.

Seeing the boy’s excitement the clever dealer asked a stiff price, but this time Atlan did not haggle. For the many items he was planning to carry concealed the jacket was ideal and not easy to replace, and therefore worth its price.  
He put his purchases away in the new jacket and kept it on, shoving the old one away with the other goods.

The dealer watched him with brows raised and grinned when the boy shot him a questioning look.  
“Know where you put your things, don’t you, ser? Mehan, aren’t you-and an experienced spacer a bit down on his luck, it seems. Why are you here, on yer own-trouble with the Family?”

Atlan compressed his lips and stood rigid. Was it that obvious that he was all alone? Of course, for a mehandor his Family was everything, and a youth would not walk alone downside, unaccompanied.

The grin faded a little. 

“Never seen a mehan’ ser buy his clothes himself. That’s done by the Wives, normally-and you with your own chip, buying basics.”

Oh. That simple the answer was-and that obvious. He’d better tell the concocted truth, to keep the man from wondering and surmising. A disaster was still better than a matter that kept the man wondering and smelling an Ongtree lurking in the foliage. And the shop-owner was calling him ser-another one who was surmising that he was older than he looked like. Logical, too-a kid underage would not walk around with a credit chip with money enough to buy a proper pad with!

“My family is dead, gone with the ship”, he said shortly. “I’m the sole survivor-my mother shoved me into a rescue capsule in time before the Lirela went. The others didn’t make it.”

The man’s face fell, and he winced.  
“Oh. I’m sorry. Can I-?” the gesture the shop-keeper made was somewhat empty and helpless.

The boy sighed. “Thank you, ser, but no-there isn’t anything you can do to help me, unless you know where I might find work temporarily or even longer-I’m good at positronics and programming, and know what to put together and in which manner. I was hoping to get a job somewhere with a repair workshop or a service center, in fact.   
I just arrived on this world a few pragos ago, when the money I had left had run out and the captain threw me out for I could buy no passage further.   
Sold my last possessions then to get me going here-I’ll work till I have money enough to get off-world again and to a station where I might get work among my own kind.” There, in a pack and a parcel, complete with an explanation of why he had come here at all and why he had money enough left to buy basics.

The man inclined his head in compassion and pursed his lips.

“Actually I might know that, young ser. I know such a workshop or two, it’s where I have the goods I sell repaired. What’s your age?”

“ID says thirteen passed, ser, but that’s standard count. With draw-out calced in I’m fourteen passed, nearer to fifteen-comp had the exact data, but comp’s part of a cloud of ion gas, now. Along with my mother and my father and our crew.”

The bearded man flicked his wrist. “That’ll do. The law here says you can start work with thirteen sharp, that’s no trouble even with your ID as it states your age by standard.  
Come back in the evening after I close-at eight, sharp. Perhaps I truly can help you.”

Atlan let his face light up all the way.

“That’s extremely kind of you, ser! I’ll be there, ser! Thank you!”

He bowed very politely and left, showing a hopeful smile on purpose to have the man see how glad and eager he was. Which was certainly true and no role-playing at all; after getting the pad and the technical stuff he was pretty low on funds, and the Gods knew what further equipment he would need!

Back at the hotel, he would take out his belongings which were not so meager anymore-at least not on the side of equipment and parts he would need. A skorge’ and a silencer were the first things he would have to put together, according to Golamo construction plans he had memorized by hypno-teaching, for the fun of it and for the use he had had for them.  
No-one at the Crystal Palace had found out yet how the Gos athor had slipped by every control and had managed to get, say, to maintenance wherefrom he had been able to manipulate the antigrav lift. 

“I’m so sorry, Tai Ka’Laktrote Denios”, he thought at the teacher he had seen killed by an assassin strangling his throat. The parts he had had his friends bring in, Thora these few, Thortem and Regir those others, Cergost da Quertamagin had brought the energy cells and his cousin Crysalgira the contacts and a few tools he had needed.  
That skorge’ projector still was stuffed away in his drawers at home, beneath other gaming stuff and hopefully unobtrusive enough. Gods, a few pragos ago he had thought that to be adventure, had thought that to be the salt in life-how foolish and childish he had been, and how far removed from reality!

From this reality, where his friends and the people closest to him lay dead in their blood and a whole planetary government was on the hunt for him with all its power, security service with all its robots-which in fact were illegal-and his best potential allies a criminal organization even crooks and frauds feared. That he was the Gos athor of the Tai Ark’tussan was no avail to him in this situation, on the contrary, it was the clandestine reason why he was hunted! Everything he knew, everything which he had believed to be true and right was turned upside down, and its opposite was valid suddenly-and he was all alone, more alone than ever he had been in his life or could have imagined being. He had been an absolutely public person, everyone had known and recognized him-and now he had to stay masked, had to see to it that no-one realized who he was in truth!

Here on the street, he could not break out in hysterical laughter or in a weeping fit. All he allowed himself was a twisting face. He had been thought to be a professional killer-and, looked at by daylight, he knew himself to be able to fill that role, at least in theory. The knowledge and skill he had to kill several beings in a row, swiftly and expertly, and by different means. He had been taught how to fight, how to defend himself and even attack, lethally.   
But it had all been a kind of game, training bouts where the issue was whether he would get all the points or whether he was off max with his performance and had to do it again.  
In reality, though-being off max with a poor performance meant that one was killed, that another one was better and went off alive, while the loser of the bout-lay dead in his blood, and would not have the chance to do the exercise again and do it better.

Hadn’t father always said:” If a thing is worth doing, it is also worth doing well”?, and:” Either you do a thing, and bloody well succeed, or you do not do it at all. Life seldom gives you a second chance, and the Maahks-they never do that.”

Which was a harsh sentiment, but terrifyingly true, as he had found out by himself now. Lesena and Kelta had not been given a single chance at the start, let alone a second one.

Grimly compressing his lips the youth walked into the hotel, his shopping goods hovering behind him, humming their way up the stairs following their owner. He had to make do with what he had, and he had to succeed, in the face of all the odds and a corrupt government of a backwater planet hand-in-glove with a group of mad assassins. But he had gotten basic equipment and might get work this evening-he was well on his way. Or rather- Cunor Lant’cer was, son of Aloroy of the Lirela, a mehandor shader kid, whose whole family was recently dead in an accident-or some strife he had not known about. That was entirely too probable, looking at the facts emerging from a closer analysis of that Golamo report. Aloroy had been done in by an enemy or a bunch of them, as much was becoming surer and surer. The dark reality of the world he found himself in now told him that unmistakeably.

Atlan shivered and closed the door behind him swiftly, leaning against it breathing deeply and suddenly hard, almost gasping. Out there in the corridor darkness had seemed to close in all of a sudden, darkness going for him, trying to strangle him as Denios had been strangled, soundlessly crying out in helpless mortal agony.  
The air seemed to be short indeed in the room with the comfortable bed. Slowly the young prince let himself slide down to the floor where he could sit, his back propped up by the door, and forced himself to calm down and get his heartbeat and his breath under control. Dagor meditative breathing rhythm helped, and so did his conscious effort of reminding himself that he was safe and secure here in this room, at least for a time.

The panic subsided and left the boy feeling pretty exhausted, as if he had run an especially difficult and demanding Room-which he had, in a sense. But it was not over yet, Gods it was not over yet, he did not know for how long he would have to stay here and where he would find a way out of this trap-and he did not know when-and how-that would come to pass.

Bleakly the young prince stared ahead of him. He was too well aware of the fact that he was moving upon exceedingly feeble gravo fields right now, fields that threatened to give and would let him fall down the thomkay shaft at any moment. The safety of this place, a room in a dingy hotel, was a deceptive sort of refuge, as fragile as the mask he wore was-it all rested upon people not looking closer at him or from another angle, who then might realize that the mehandor boy was not mehan’ at all, or that the unruly bangs, combed back, hid the profile of a face that was known Empire-wide. The murderers and their allies from Tela-vhelor’s government were searching the spaceport now. Soon they would realize that he had slipped their net in that regard, or had not fallen for that trap-then they would widen their search. No matter where and how he was hiding, he was a stranger from off-world and could not hide that, so among strangers he must stay to keep from drawing attention. That meant that he was to be found in the vicinity of the spaceport and in this district of the capital. To go through every hotel and a possible place to stay, to look through every shop and cut off any retreat and street would be tedious, but it would be the logical next step for the KOLLOSS men searching for him.  
Of course, he could run in time-but where to? In other districts of this town of Makarsa he would be noticed, his very mask, made ostentatious to draw attention away from the truth, too conspicuous to go unnoticed. He would stand out, and be found the swifter. Gods, what was he to do? 

Moaning softly Atlan hid his face in his hands. Panic started to rise anew, making him tremble and shiver once more.  
It was as if the floor he sat upon was consisting of a dark flash-shot abyss of stars, hyperstorms raging down there and black holes drawing him down, and he sat on a fragile sheen of a force field which would give at any moment, and then he would fall, fall into the abyss-

With a strangled cry he ducked down, almost curling into a ball with panic. Only strict and harsh discipline, exercised all the days of his life, let the young Gos athor hold on to a shred of reason, to a splinter of sanity. This reality he was in now was alien to him, was terribly frightening and so full of darkness and despair, of loss and pain and fear-

And yet it was real. Atlan forced himself to take the calming row of breaths again, felt the hard floor with his palms, pressed them down to feel the ground and be conscious of it. No abyss there, and no dark space. The problem was, he feared, that he simply could not accept reality for what it was, hurt as he had been by the terrible loss of his loved ones, Lesena and Kelta, and the Silvers who had protected him all his life, and Denios da Pert and all the others---yet he had to deal with it, and live within it, and move here and now upon this planet of Tela-vhelor.  
Everything felt somewhat unreal, out of place. Home, as it had been, was lost for good too-the Crystal Palace existed still, of course, but he would never run along its halls with Lesena in pursuit anymore, laughing and dodging her, horsing around with his friends, ignorant of what else was real, like death and the war and soldiers being burned to death, screaming-  
Gods, the stink of burned flesh, the awful feel of cooling blood sticking to his fingers, the taste of vomit upon his tongue and the knowledge of being utterly exposed-

For a moment Atlan felt like retching. Then he forced himself to remember that he had successfully escaped that scenario, had proven to himself that he was not helpless at all, that he had the means and skills and knowledge to deal with all of this, to succeed, yes father, bloody well succeed and come home on his own!

Taking a few deep breaths more the young prince managed to really calm down at long last. He needed a clear head now and had to be able to disguise himself in full earnest. He had to be better than he had been doing up to now-he must not only play the role of Cunor Lant’cer, he had to BE Cunor Lant’cer. There never must be a slip-up, there must never be a mistake, a false move that would not be in character with Cunor. Too fragile was the actual physical mask he could put on. It must absolutely convincingly consist of appearance instead; of character and personality.  
Cunor had to be like himself then too; like to parts of his personality he had to conceal and suppress at home. He had to be unruly, and quick to anger and defence if necessary-not easily willing to obey. Someone who would play pranks, and would not accept rules, and would not smoothly fit in but stand up for his own, not giving way to anyone, being hard-headed and a fighter if necessary. Yes. Someone who knew no discipline and would not accept it if one wanted it from him-or, rather, a spacer brat who knew a different kind of discipline, not the one of standing at parades and attending the Tai Than or keeping to military discipline, obeying instructors and superiors, but who knew the discipline of life and death shipboard, the discipline of safety drills and of never forgetting an opened valve or of keeping the posts on bridge attended to even during alterday and a totally uneventful accelerating period.

Luckily he knew of that too, and of the discipline of Dagor which kept any trainee and fighter to an edge he would need here, and which would be a kind of discipline probable and in character with Aloroy Lant’cer’s son.

That fit; no politeness and smooth appearance, immaculate and well-polished for the eyes of the public. Cunor would swear, and take offence, and would not meekly obey rules, but would question them and break them carelessly if he thought fit. So he had done, actually, in truth, but he had had to do it in secret in the Crystal Palace.  
Here he would be all of that openly, adding mehandor manners to the mix. Thanked be the Gods that he knew a lot about the trader folk; he had a lot of mehan’ido and knew the little gestures and mannerisms mehandor displayed; mother had had him study the culture to prepare him for stranger peoples, and learn about mindsets and cultural behaviourism with a people that was still very close to the Arkonath before he moved on to the stranger peoples and ways of thinking and seeing the universe. He knew about the Deal, and the Compact of Blood, and the Braid of Honour.

Decisively he sat up. Atlan tec’ Gonozal, the Gos athor da Arkon, must go far away inside Cunor Lant’cer, must only occasionally peep through the eyeholes of a closely fitting and impenetrable mask. He had to be hidden perfectly, covered totally. The reality he had known-and which he now knew to have been terribly childish, ignorant of most of what went on in truth, in actual reality-he must shut away as consistently and resolutely. The world of the Crystal Palace had to be made unreal to him, as it naturally was something Cunor Lant’cer never had known. He had to feel comfortable and confident in the reality he lived in now; that could be done only if he did not constantly compare it with what he had known, in, kind of, another life. He had to change realities, so to say. Hide behind the mask of Cunor, analyse all the time, watch and learn and be swift about it. Hair-trigger reaction, full concentration; that way he would be able to avoid mistakes. A state of mind he had to be in and had trained for when he had to run a Room; well, he was running a Room now, his biggest and most complex ever, wasn’t he?

Surprisingly that thought felt very comforting. It put the whole matter into a known and familiar context, a context he felt confident with and where he knew himself to be competent and able. Denios had taught him manners; all of that was moot now. Not moot, though, was the ways those manners taught about how people dealt with each other, which had been a very valuable lesson. Watch a man or a woman or a bras’coor and know how they felt, what they thought, play the game of who-am-I, and turn it around. 

A meditation was in order, and one that went very deep; he actually would need an intervention upon himself to get all of this implemented. He already had an idea of what to do, and how. Ceremony and symbols would do the trick to get him there, he hoped.


End file.
